I Belong to You
by DualWielding
Summary: Blaine's ship is attacked by pirates! But captivity isn't what he expected and neither is the infamous Captain Black. Warnings inside. WIP
1. Supreme Excellence

**I Belong to You**

**Alternat****ive ****Summary:** Blaine is taken prisoner when his ship is attacked by pirates. Kurt is haunted by his past and by the knowledge that he'll never have a chance at a normal life. Both need to be saved, each in his own way.

**Rated:** M

**Disclaimer:** I know you know how much I wish they were mine.

**Warnings:** 18th century AU. M/M situations that could cause the rating to increase if I'm not careful. Implied non-con & suicide (not Kurt or Blaine). Mentions of familiar characters, some with name changes (to protect the guilty). See if you can spot them.

Also, enough UST to choke a whale.

* * *

**Ch 1: Supreme Excellence**

Blaine Anderson had always been uncommonly lucky. He was clever, handsome and talented. "A charmed life," people would tell him. Not only was he born into an affluent and influential family, but he was thoughtful, considerate, delightfully humble, and well liked by all who met him; young and old, wealthy or not. And in addition to all that, he was just plain lucky.

If he planned to go riding, the weather would be fine. When he made an impromptu visit to a friend, the friend would be home. Simply walking down the street, he'd meet someone who knew the answer to a question he was pondering.

But no matter how often things went his way, which was most of the time, it never went to his head. His father made certain of that. "Luck is for fools and beggars," Mr. Anderson would lecture disinterestedly at the dinner table without wanting or tolerating a response from his son. Honestly, Blaine wasn't sure his father knew he was there.

"Nothing will be handed to you. You must seize every opportunity. Do what is necessary to improve your standing. Socialize with the right people. Marry into the right family. Behave with dignity at all times," he would list the requirements for success that Blaine had had memorized before he'd fully understood the definition of dignity. "You certainly cannot depend on luck."

Blaine really, _really_ hated it when his father was right.

A jumble of images were featured in his slow return to consciousness. They swam around hazily behind Blaine's closed lids. Alongside thoughts of his father were memories of the attack; the deafening noise, the adrenalin and fear. The chain-shot that tumbled through the air in a wildly spinning arc, as beautiful as it was terrifying, until its short flight ended in a great and crippling tangle of canvas and rope.

A pirate attack. It was too unbelievable. Things like that only happened to other people, or in stories told to naive children. But it had happened. The merchant ship he'd been traveling on had been overtaken and boarded, the crew outmatched, and Blaine had leapt into the fray. He'd expected to die, but he wasn't going down without a fight. And that was the last thing he remembered.

"Ow," he groaned. That summed his day up nicely.

From somewhere nearby, he could hear people muttering and whispering, and someone crying. A hand tapped his shoulder. "All right there?"

Blaine cracked open a squinty eye, lifting a hand to the back of his head. Thad, a crew member he'd met during the voyage, was looking down at him from where he sat next to Blaine on a hard wooden floor. "Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. Whether that was true or not was anyone's guess. The lump under his fingers indicated someone might have tried to crack his skull with a plank. "Where are we?"

A short, humorless laugh came from Blaine's other side. "The Blackbird," said a sailor Blaine didn't know. He reached out to rap a knuckle against a black, iron bar. It rang with a dull thunk, thunk. "Welcome aboard."

Eyes slowly widening, Blaine took in the horrifying sight of the interior of a prison cell. He sat up gingerly, pressing a palm uselessly to his aching head and looking around. Flickering light from hanging lanterns revealed a long, narrow room with cells along both sides, currently housing what looked to be the full ship's complement from the Iron Fist.

At one end of the room were steps leading to the only visible exit, guarded by two rather fearsome looking pirates, and the crying from earlier could still be heard coming from a cell on the opposite wall. It was one of the other passengers, a young lady whose crocodile tears were being mopped from her face by a distraught and missish companion, while behind them hovered a bewildered young maid.

"Is everyone here?" asked Blaine, and Thad gave a hesitant shake of the head.

"Cap'n's dead." Once again, the other sailor bluntly spoke up. "Refused to hand over the ship and fought like a demon from what I hear." The man shot a contemptuous glare toward the silent guards while others nearby nodded and muttered about heroes and swine. "Sent half a dozen of the bastards to the depths before they cut him down."

"I'm sorry." Although he'd barely known Captain Clarington, had spoken to him only once or twice since they'd left port, Blaine was genuinely saddened. He couldn't hear of anyone's death without feeling empathy for their friends and family. Consequently, the sailor's unconcerned shrug was startling.

The man sat cross-legged, leaning tiredly against a wall of bars. Dark blonde hair stuck out from his head in different directions like it couldn't make up its mind and, like so many sailors Blaine had seen in the last few weeks, his beard was untrimmed and not doing his face any favors. It might have helped disguise the gauntness of his cheeks, but it only enhanced the dark shadows under his eyes.

He looked more haggard than the battle could account for, and Blaine guessed there was no love lost between him and the deceased captain. Still, the sailor seemed conflicted, as though he would never have wished the captain dead, but was having difficulty feeling any true regret at the loss. Or he could simply be pragmatic, thought Blaine. With the captain dead and the rest of them imprisoned, perhaps the man was more concerned about his own fate at that moment. Perhaps they all should be.

In any case, they were stuck there for the time being. "Blaine," he said, holding out a hand to the blonde.

"Johnny." The reply was accompanied by a firm handshake.

"Nice to meet you, Johnny. How long did you serve on the Iron Fist?" Blaine asked. Small talk came naturally to him after a lifetime of training, but the conversation was cut short by the sound of approaching footsteps. The room went quiet, all eyes turned toward the door, some angry and others nervous, and everyone got to their feet.

Blaine stood, with a helping hand from Thad, and watched the door open. Leading the way down the short flight of stairs was a stern-faced, barrel-chested man, who outweighed Blaine by a good three or four stone. Behind him was a taller, yet less intimidating man, wearing a guileless expression. And finally, striding noiselessly down the wooden steps in pristine black leather boots, came a man who made the others fade into insignificance.

Eerie silence and wary stares greeted the men coming to a stop in their midst, each armed with pistol and cutlass, and probably more weapons tucked out of sight. The burly pirate glared menacingly at anyone who dared meet his eye while the taller one only seemed curious, but Blaine paid them no mind.

It was the smallest of the group who was clearly in charge. There was something about the way he carried himself, confident and utterly composed. But though he was obviously a leader among the pirates, there was nothing terrifying about him. That was until you saw his eyes. Which were bone-chillingly emotionless.

"I am Captain Kurt Black." He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. The hold was silent but for the gentle creaking of the ship.

Even Blaine had heard of him, the infamous Gentleman Pirate, if this was truly Captain Black. Blaine had seen and been confused by Wanted posters near the docks back home, as each one seemed to portray a different man. One drawing showed longish black hair and eyes. Another had shorter, lighter hair and a scar down one cheek. And a third depicted someone slightly older, with deep frown lines accentuating a firm sneer. Only one thing was certain, and that was that none of those renderings bore any resemblance to the truth.

Men shifted and turned uncomfortably or their eyes dropped to the floor as the captain's cold gaze began to pass over the prisoners. Blaine had never seen anything like it and was reluctantly intrigued by the uncommon criminal in whose hands rested all their fates.

The captain's perusal soon stopped on one man who glared fearlessly – foolishly? – back. "As you know, your captain is not here." Some of the men's angry looks returned at the easy mention of Captain Clarington's death by the one who'd caused it. The captain didn't appear to notice. "Who was his second in command?" he asked, clearly guessing the answer.

"I'm First Mate Smythe," was the furious, cutting response. "I speak for this crew now."

"Excellent, Mr. Smythe," said the captain in his frighteningly detached tone. "Perhaps you'll be more cooperative than your predecessor."

Smythe gnashed his teeth. "Do you plan to murder me too, then, if I don't bow and scrape? Just try it. I'll kill you with my bare hands," he snarled.

Blaine was skeptical of the wisdom in throwing empty threats at a man who, it was obvious, would as soon shoot you as look at you. He also suspected that antagonizing this particular pirate would not improve their situation, gentleman or no.

But Captain Black didn't give Smythe even the small satisfaction of a flash of anger. "Your captain's death was unnecessary," he plainly stated what the crew of the Iron Fist would not acknowledge. "Had he accepted the inevitable, he would be with you now. But he chose his pride over his life. I hope none of you will make the same mistake."

Smythe said nothing in reply to the thinly veiled, casually delivered threat, but his eyes were filled with hatred and his fists clenched in impotent rage. The barrel-chested pirate growled low in his throat until Captain Black patted him on the shoulder, causing Blaine to blink in confusion at the friendly act. "Never mind. There's always one, isn't there, Davidson?"

Davidson's non-committal grunt seemed to be all the answer his captain expected.

"As for the rest of you, I've come to explain your situation and see that any questions you might have are answered to your satisfaction." The room was quiet again as this surprisingly polite offer was allowed to sink in, and Blaine began to see how he might have earned his nickname.

"First," the captain continued, "as long as you cooperate, none of you will be harmed." Again, Blaine was caught off-guard, stunned by such a promise. Not that the word of a pirate was worth anything. So why did he believe it?

"Second, you will be released when we make port at a suitable location in a few months." A flurry of whispers could be heard at that. "And third, those of you who do not wish to spend the entirety of your journey exclusively in this hold may be allowed certain liberties after a time, in return for earning your keep."

Throughout this speech, Smythe's snarl had become, if anything, more pronounced. "We're not interested in being your slave labor!"

Slowly, Captain Black turned to face the hostile former first mate once more, and Blaine was amused to see those standing nearest Smythe move cautiously away from the target he made. "I'm afraid I won't be able to extend the offer to you, Mr. Smythe. I can't have anyone dangerous running loose about my ship. However, you will be released with the others when the time comes. Unless you would prefer to depart the ship now, of course. I'd be happy to have you escorted to the rail if that is your wish."

"Now," the captain went on, calmly dismissing Mr. Smythe as unimportant, "are there any questions?"

The prim and proper lady stepped forward, drawing a loud gasp from her tear-stained companion, who'd been staring in awe at the pirates since they'd entered the room. "I– I have one, um, Captain Black."

"Yes, madam." He moved closer and she took an involuntary step back. "How may I be of service?"

There was no warmth in his tone. Nevertheless, she seemed to gain confidence at the respectful words and her chin rose fractionally while her clasped hands trembled before her. "Do you plan to leave the women and menfolk together like this?" she boldly demanded. "It is highly improper. My young charge cannot be expected to sleep in the same cell with grown men. Not to mention other, more personal matters." The bright pink of her cheeks and intense red of her hair combined to give the appearance that she could burst into flames at any moment.

"Of course, madam. I offer my most sincere apologies. Naturally, the ladies cannot be expected to share their living quarters with the men. I will attend to it immediately." He gave a polite nod, ignoring the shocked faces and renewed whispers of the other prisoners, and turned to Davidson. "Mr. Davidson, please see that the ladies are afforded some privacy right away."

"Aye, sir," Davidson replied briskly and headed for the steps without batting an eye.

"She's dead. She'll be thrown in the drink for sure," Johnny murmured, shaking his head. "Damn shame, a fine woman like that. Got some bollocks on her, don't she." He nudged Blaine with an elbow, chuckling in admiration.

"If there are no other questions," the captain gestured toward the remaining pirate, "this is Mr. Finley, the first mate. He will be responsible for you during your stay here and will keep me informed of any issues requiring my personal attention."

"Our stay here," someone behind Blaine sneered quietly.

Captain Black's eyes scanned the room again and Blaine thought they flickered for an instant when they came to rest on him before the captain turned sharply on his heel and left without another word. Blaine watched in bemusement as the captain hurriedly took his leave.

The soft snick of the closing door broke the spell over the room, triggering a cacophony of voices. Everyone tried to speak at once, yelling over one another to make demands of Mr. Finley and curse him roundly for all they'd suffered that day.

Unfortunately for Mr. Finley, he didn't have the captain's ability to command a room, his pure _presence_. After several minutes of failed attempts to reassert control, he gave up and ignored everyone equally, preferring instead to assist a sailor who was armed with a huge pile of blankets stacked well above his chin and feeling his way into the hold, a step at a time. Together they brought down enough for everyone, surprising many of the Iron Fist's sailors, who weren't expecting to be shown any kindness. Blaine wondered if the captain knew what they were doing, then shook his head. Of course he'd know. He'd probably given the order himself. He was a puzzle, that one.

With blankets discharged, they brought down a few more armed guards and shuffled some of the captives around to empty a cell on the end for the females, then proceeded to string rope across the middle and front so the ladies could hang blankets to act as thick curtains, effectively blocking half their cell from the view of everyone else.

The woman, Miss Pillsbury, as she informed the first mate in a tone that reminded Blaine very much of his last governess, seemed quite pleased that her request had been granted so quickly and thoroughly. Chin in the air, she very politely thanked the pirates for locking her in a prison cell with blankets for walls. Blaine's snicker turned into an awkward cough at a look from Johnny, and Blaine decided it would be a good idea to try to sleep off his headache.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

_"To capture the enemy's entire army is better than to destroy it; to take intact a regiment, a company, or a squad is better than to destroy them. For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the supreme of excellence. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the supreme excellence."_

_- Sun Tzu_


	2. Hellos and Goodbyes

_Thanks for the reviews!_

* * *

It was a good sleep that a delicious aroma and the resultant rumble of his stomach pulled Blaine from. He supposed he should be grateful that a diet of bread and water wasn't on the pirates' agenda for their prisoners, but Johnny was grateful enough for the both of them if the way he was trying to fit his face between the bars was any indication.

"They wouldn't starve us," Thad was saying.

"You don't know that," argued Johnny, refusing to take his eyes off the glorious sight before him.

Dinner, Blaine saw as he joined the others, consisted of thick slices of bread and a hearty stew that was being dished up by a rather formidable and vocal woman, and passed through slots in the doors by two young seamen who jumped to do her bidding.

There was much muttering from the prisoners about women and bad luck, but not to her face.

They'd just about finished serving everyone when Mr. Finley clomped down the steps, Davidson right behind.

Finley smugly regarded the room full of people whose mouths were too occupied to bellow their grievances. "Captain Black asked me to look in on you again before lights out," he spoke loudly and uninterrupted and grinned afterward. "Also to remind you the offer stands if you'd like to pitch in topside. He reckons you'll want to think on it awhile. We can't be babysitting, though, so you'd be expected to work while stretching your legs. And no more than a few at a time, so keep in mind you'd have to take turns." He got a mixed reception, with expressions ranging from thoughtful to furious – Smythe, naturally. "Most of you are crew, I expect. How many passengers?"

The ladies raised their hands, of course, and the maid followed suit after a few swiftly whispered words from the other two. There was also a footman who'd been traveling with them, one older, rounder gentleman traveling alone, and Blaine. Finley murmured something to Davidson, whose hard glance examined both the footman and Blaine before he nodded and left.

"Captain might come around again sometime in the next few days." Finley's voice got louder as meals were consumed and the din around him began to grow. "In the meantime, if there're any problems you can ask for me!" The cook went about her business ignoring him completely, scraping the pot to refill bowls held out for more and calling to her assistants to fetch water without trying to moderate her volume. The assistants each filled a pail from a large barrel, dropped ladles into them and brought them to the table where the cook thumped down the empty kettle. Men were talking, metal was clanging and spoons were clattering, and Mr. Finley gave up. But few captives were showing any interest in Mr. Finley. Most eyes were on the cook.

"What's she doing?" Blaine asked Johnny, whose attitude had taken a sharp turn. He'd practically inhaled his bread, shoving the entire thing into his mouth before it could be snatched away again as a cruel joke. And he was now humming rapturously after diving face first into a second bowl of lamb stew. He came up for air far enough to peek over the edge of his bowl and look to where Blaine was jutting his chin.

The cook had pulled a jar of cloudy liquid from a wooden crate and was dumping it into the water buckets before the seamen hauled them from cell to cell, starting with the women, to drink from the ladle – to Miss Pillsbury's horror. Blaine watched this strange ritual and looked curiously at his cellmate.

Johnny was gaping in surprise, which was unfortunate for Blaine, because he hadn't swallowed that last bite yet. Johnny realized it himself when he tried to speak and nearly let a mouthful get away. After rectifying that and wiping a palm down his beard, only to lick it clean while Blaine cringed, he hugged the bowl closer to his chest and stared at the cook with wide eyes. "Lemon," he said nonsensically.

"Beg pardon?" Blaine asked.

"She put lemon juice in the water," the sailor said with a reverence Blaine couldn't share.

He thought it a very odd thing to do indeed, except as a prank on one's already sour-faced governess. Not that he would have ever– "And why would she do that?"

"Keeps away the scurvy," Johnny mumbled around another mouthful, moaning and groaning in ecstasy until Blaine was firmly of the opinion that he should either stop making that noise or ask the cook to marry him. However, his cellmate might have competition. Looking around, Blaine noticed that though the officers were still sneering disdainfully at their captors while deigning to eat, the lower ranking sailors were happily gorging themselves.

Blaine drank his fill of unpleasantly tart water when his turn came, after encouraging nods from Thad and Johnny, then sat with his back to the wall. He made a cushion of his folded blanket. Then adjusted it. And readjusted it. Until, after a painfully long hour of useless fidgeting, he concluded he'd go mad stuck in this cell for months. He'd never been good at sitting still, much to his various tutors' aggravation. And though he didn't know how much use he'd be as a crewman, anything was better than being locked in a cage.

Scrubbing the deck sounded simple enough, if labor intensive. But Blaine wasn't afraid of hard work, so maybe he could try that. Except... On the Iron Fist it was used as a punishment. He'd seen men unable to straighten after hours spent kneeling over the book-sized sandstone, scouring the wooden deck until it was spotless.

For all he knew it could be standard practice to reserve that chore until someone annoyed a superior, drank someone's grog, cheated at cards, or whatever else passed for minor infractions at sea. He knew it was a minor punishment because he'd also seen men flogged. Well, one man. Once was enough for him to never watch again.

* * *

Deep red wine swirled slowly around in its glass, glinting and sending colorful shadows dancing across the floor, and thoroughly wasting its full-bodied bouquet on Kurt. He sat staring sightlessly over the rim, his thoughts turned inward.

Earlier he'd asked Finn to find out if there were any male passengers in the brig who looked fit for work. As if he didn't know. It was embarrassing, even if he was the only person aware of that fact.

Impulsive actions weren't something Kurt was typically prone to and he'd quickly regretted it. Fortunately, his unobservant brother hadn't noticed the way Kurt had not quite met his eyes at the time. But then Kurt had made it worse by babbling an explanation for the odd request to the effect that the passengers they'd seen in the past were irritatingly self-important society gents who walked around with a perpetual stick up their ass. Men who'd never done an honest day's work and wouldn't know a yardarm from a mizzenmast. At which point Finn had started to look confused, so Kurt dropped it.

Beautiful eyes and striking features had left him annoyingly breathless earlier, when he had much more important things to think about. He absently sipped his drink and frowned at its flatness. The glass was set aside and he stood to begin pacing, the click-clack of his boot heels announcing his agitation, had anyone been listening.

They'd lost two men taking the Iron Fist. That was the one aspect of this life Kurt would never adjust to. Knowing he was responsible for anyone's death, directly or indirectly, weighed on him until he couldn't breathe. But he stayed strong in front of the men, never for a moment letting anyone see how affected he was. When it got to be too much, he would lock himself in his cabin to grieve in private.

He could scream without making a sound.

As long as he kept his pain and anger buried deep, everything would be fine. Absolutely fine. He just needed a diversion. Yes. That would explain his ill-timed interest in a man he'd spent approximately two seconds looking at.

Sure, the stranger was handsome and clean shaven, which Kurt happened to like. He was also well dressed and, frankly, not your standard, scruffy, unwashed sailor. Naturally he would stand out. But that was no reason to take any special notice of him. Neither was his open expression, filled with unabashed curiosity and not the hatred Kurt was accustomed to seeing. He therefore resolved to push any thoughts of the man out of his mind. _Done. Problem solved._

He jumped at the sound of a sharp knock and scolded himself roundly for daydreaming. Nevertheless, he walked calmly back to the chair, crossing one long leg over the other and grasping the stem of his glass in a steady hand. "Come in," he called, giving the burgundy another swirl.

One of Kurt's officers pushed open the door and took a single step inside, keeping hold of the brass handle. "Sir."

"Yes, Davidson, what is it?" Kurt quietly set the wine glass back down, knowing he had no intention of drinking it.

"Mr. Finley sent me to tell you there are two able-bodied passengers aboard, sir." Davidson's jaw clenched.

Kurt wilted at the untimely reminder of something he'd only just determined to forget. "Thank you," he sighed wearily, then frowned. "Did you say two?"

Davidson nodded, looking more stern than usual, if one could distinguish among his many levels of sternness. "Yes, sir. Mr. Finley is in the hold now, talking to the prisoners." He kept his eyes trained at a point on the wall. "If that's all, sir?" He made to leave.

"Wait." Kurt's hand fluttered in a shushing motion. "Did you see them yourself? Were they both gentlemen, do you think?" Hearing the obvious curiosity in his own voice, he winced inwardly, wishing he had let the officer go before he'd had a chance to embarrass himself further.

Davidson continued to glare at the wall. "I believe one was a manservant, sir."

"Oh. Thank you." Kurt again pictured the expensively attired man and knew he was no servant. "Not that it matters," he added belatedly.

"If you say so, sir."

Kurt's brows knitted at the tone, causing the sailor's eyes to shift farther away. "Thank you," Kurt repeated with unmistakable reproach. "Is everything ready for this evening?" The coldness Kurt usually reserved for strangers served as a warning.

"Yes, sir." Davidson's mouth tightened until his thin lips were non-existent.

"Good. You may go."

* * *

Up on deck, the men were unusually quiet, going about their work without ribald jokes or even a sea shanty. Kurt was similarly subdued as he passed by, returning muted greetings on his way to the galley, where the atmosphere was much the same. Sailors offered a quiet "Captain" and went back to their meals.

The quartermaster was placing his empty dish with a stack of others to be cleaned. "Captain," he said and moved to stand next to him at the enormous cast iron stove. "Can I help you with that?" He reached for the bowl Kurt had picked up.

"No, I think I can manage. Thanks, Puck."

"All right. But I wouldn't let her catch you eating with the crew, unless you enjoy a good thrashing." Puck grinned lasciviously. "Some people do."

Kurt half-smiled. "I notice you're here." He gave Puck a knowing look.

"I have permission from the lady, herself." Puck smirked back. "She enjoys my scintillating company." He curled both arms in front of his body to show off impressive biceps and flexed his pecs to force a laugh from the captain. With a friendly swat on Kurt's shoulder, Puck headed back to his post at the ship's wheel.

"Captain!" barked the cook minutes later. Kurt nearly flung a spoonful of stew across the table. "What are you doing in here? Did you serve yourself?!" She stood in the doorway, looking as menacing as any sailor aboard. More so when she turned a murderous glare on those unfortunate enough to be present in the galley just then.

"It's fine. I don't need to be waited on," Kurt tried to placate as she stomped forward and her two mess hands were able to slink through the door behind her. They carried a large empty pot between them and immediately tackled the scrubbing, trying to make themselves invisible.

"How dare you sit there stuffing your worthless faces while your captain spoons up soup like a common kitchen maid, you filthy bilge rats!" she ignored Kurt, bellowing to the room at large while a dozen big, strong men shrank in their seats, necks disappearing into shoulders.

Aboard the Blackbird there were three people upon whose bad side no one ever wanted to be: the captain, the surgeon and the cook.

"Get! Out!" She yelled at her shipmates, who were mowing each other down in their attempt to escape. "Get out of my kitchen this instant! I'll boil your bollocks for breakfast! I'll use your entrails for shark bait, you good-for-nothing-but-cannon-fodder sons of a penny whore!" she continued at an unholy volume, ensuring no man slackened his pace on his way out the door.

"That's better," she sighed pleasantly, seating herself across from Kurt. "I love a man who can follow direction." She gave the captain a saucy wink. "Now," her warm tone turned serious, "how are you, Captain?"

"I'm fine, Zize," he said, which told her just how bad it really was. They never used real names, especially at sea. It was his own rule, made to protect everyone in his crew for the day they turned their back on pirating and rejoined society. Only a handful of people aboard knew her as anything but Cook, or Cookie if they liked living dangerously – Puck. Kurt himself was the only exception to the rule, using his real first name, which Lauren privately believed was because he felt he deserved to be caught and punished. She also believed that anyone who tried would have to go through her first.

Kurt's smile didn't fool her for one second either. They'd been friends from the day they met; a couple of misfit kids who immediately clicked. It was for Kurt's sake that Lauren had insisted on taking over as cook aboard the Blackbird. He was mere skin and bones, every voyage making it worse until she could have picked him up by the scruff of his neck with one hand.

All the men would return lighter than when they left, causing her unceasing worry. And she didn't appreciate being made to worry. Disease and malnourishment were rampant problems at sea, but that didn't stop men from signing on to be sailors. She'd realized years ago that men were not very bright.

But the stupidity of men did not stop women from loving them, and she loved Kurt like a brother. Maybe better – she didn't have a brother for comparison. Her hand slid across the table to cover his. "It's not your fault," she told him gently and watched with a sad heart as his eyes clenched and his head turned away.

Lauren patted his hand and checked to see that her two assistants were minding their own business. Which, of course, they were. Alex and Billy had been with her long enough to know when to close their eyes and ears.

Giving Kurt a little time to compose himself, she got up and prepared a cup of hot tea with lemon, adding a generous spoonful of honey and a splash of rum and sliding it in front of him before sitting back down.

His smile was sad now, but genuine as his hands curled around the tin cup. "O'Malley and Thomas," he whispered, watching steam rise steadily from the hot liquid.

"I know," she quietly replied.

"Doc's getting them ready now." Kurt swept a finger and thumb inward from the corners of his eyes and cleared his throat, speaking more evenly. "Services at sundown. I expect to see every man on deck in a few minutes."

Lauren followed his lead and raised her voice. "We'll be there, Captain. Billy, Alex," she called and they flew to her side. "Go down to the cargo hold and haul up another case of rum. We'll be sending our shipmates off to Fiddler's Green with proper toasts and sea stories tonight!"

"Yes, ma'am!" they chorused and dashed out the door.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Captain? You didn't finish your stew. How about a fresh bowl later while the boys fetch you some nice hot bath water?"

Kurt picked up his friend's hand and brought it to his lips. "You are an angel, but I don't think I'll be able to eat a thing tonight. Just the bath, please, if Billy and Alex aren't falling down drunk after the service."

"Pshht. If they fall it'll be 'cause I knocked 'em down."

* * *

Captivity was boring! And smelly, and itchy. Blaine scratched for the hundredth time at the short, dark hair on his face.

It didn't start off so bad. He'd gotten to know his cellmates, Thad and Johnny and the other two, Trent and Nick. Thank heaven they never seemed to run out of adventurous tales to spin, and thank heaven there were neighboring cells for him to turn to if they did.

If he'd been locked in here alone, he would be banging his head against the bars of his cage until they were imprinted on his forehead. With any luck he would knock himself unconscious.

Except that Lady Luck had abandoned him. Fickle tart.

For the first couple of days the captured sailors weren't inclined to chat. Blaine soon wore them down. But he couldn't take all the credit. Like Johnny, they began to look forward to meal times. And then they rediscovered something they hadn't enjoyed since childhood. Naps. Full bellies and no eighteen hour work days? Captivity wasn't so terrible as all that.

Of course, Blaine had never suffered continuous, gnawing hunger or years of being worked ragged. And he'd always been able to sleep when he got too tired. To the sailors, it might have felt like a well-deserved break. To Blaine it was prison, plain and simple. There wasn't even enough room to pace properly when the need to move burned under his skin.

He used both hands to scratch at his face and neck, scraping hard until his skin was red and raw, just to have something to feel.

"Why don't you run in place, or something?" Thad suggested.

Blaine took deep, calming breaths and looked at his friend. "Thanks. I would, except I'd be drenched in sweat inside of five minutes and none of us want that." He sighed and plopped down against the cell wall. He was spoiled, he'd decided. _Well bred_, he mentally mimicked his father, rolling the 'r' and using an extra snooty accent for emphasis.

They'd been in here for a week. Never in his life had he gone a week without a bath and change of clothes. Never had he been denied exercise or fresh air or a close shave when he wanted them. So this was good for him in the long run. Character building. That's what he kept telling himself.

These living conditions didn't seem to bother the others, except the ladies and the older gentleman, of course. Blaine knocked the back of his head lightly against the bars. He was soft. Like a woman. But even the maid didn't complain, only the 'proper lady' ladies. He groaned inwardly.

At least Blaine could honestly say he wasn't as bad as Smythe. When that man wasn't abusing his education to call the guards every insulting word he didn't think they'd know, he was complaining about the odor or the cramped space or being locked up with common sailors. And when he wasn't doing any of those, he was plotting. He and his two henchmen – as Blaine thought of the second mate and navigator – were forever forming elaborate escape plans. Being two cells away, though, Blaine couldn't hear all of it, luckily.

So luck hadn't entirely abandoned him. It was still out there, laughing.

It wasn't until the beginning of the second week that Mr. Finley came to pose the all-important question of who wanted to earn some time out of the brig. Smythe informed Finley in great detail exactly what he thought of him and declared that none of his men would lift a finger for the pirate scum.

The well-rested and healthier looking crewmen looked around at each other. Then at Smythe. And every single one of them started calling out to Mr. Finley to get signed up.

Smythe turned an unflattering shade of red, snarling orders at the men until someone across the way told him to shut his trap.

"How dare you," he fumed. "I am the captain now!" Smythe stood tall and proud.

"Oh, yeah?" the old salt baited him. "Captain of what?" Laughter broke out on all sides, causing Smythe to splutter furiously, demanding obedience. "Look around you, Captain," the crewman called out sardonically, waving a hand at the room full of smiling sailors. "There ain't a man here who owes you a blessed thing. Least of all obedience. Come to think on it, I'm owed wages for the last three months. And since you claim to take over for Cap'n Clarington, I reckon that means I'll be gettin' my share from you."

Smythe's nose went into the air. "You'll burn in hell before you get a penny from me."

"That so?" asked a heavily muscled sailor from the cell next to Smythe's. The red flush quickly receded from his face and he took a step backward toward three pairs of hands that reached through the bars on his other side to grab at his waistcoat. There was a shriek and Smythe and his men stood with their backs to each other, keeping out of range of all but the two sailors who shared their cell. Those two leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, enjoying the show.

Blaine almost felt sorry for the officers. He also felt very ashamed that the navigator, Mr. Stanley, was actually the reason he'd chosen the Iron Fist from among the three ships preparing to leave port the day he'd made his impulsive decision to travel abroad.

The officers he'd spoken to from the other ships seemed nice enough; big, brawny, obviously hard-working men, both. Unlike the petite, dough-faced and acerbic Stanley. Blaine hated to admit, even to himself, that the idea of buying passage from someone whose ego reminded him of his father, yet who had no authority over Blaine whatsoever, had held a certain immature appeal.

Blaine grimaced. He'd brought this on himself. Someone out there was teaching him a lesson for being petty and disrespectful of his father and this prison was his punishment. It all made sense now.

He was quiet while the crewmen listed their skills, which were numerous and varied and incomprehensible to Blaine. They rattled off so many nautical terms it was like a foreign language. Blaine spoke Italian, himself. He doubted it would come in handy in this situation.

"And you were a passenger, Mr. ...?" Mr. Finley's question brought Blaine out of his introspective mope and he found several pairs of eyes turned in his direction.

"Anderson. Blaine Anderson." He cleared his scratchy throat. "Yes, sir, that's right."

Mr. Finley's smile was friendly, if slightly awkward, when he looked at Blaine. "Traveling on business, or visiting family?"

"Er, neither." Blaine admitted. Beside Mr. Finley, the officer whose name Blaine didn't know raised his writing hand from where he'd been diligently taking notes and slowly pushed his spectacles back with a pointed finger, blue eyes peering at Blaine over the frames. The look the man then gave Mr. Finley spoke volumes about this being a waste of time, but his pencil returned to his log book, poised to take note if Blaine should say anything worthwhile.

A welcome distraction arrived at that moment in the form of the cook barging through the door, spouting off orders right and left as one of her assistants and a handful of sailors carted down food and dishes under her watchful eye. Johnny, for one, had eyes only for the newcomers, the question of Blaine's journey forgotten.

Mr. Finley turned to call out a greeting. "Where's Billy, is he sick?" He glanced around for the other young man who usually tailed her everywhere.

"Serving the Captain's meal in his quarters." She gave him a challenging look, but he didn't heed the warning.

"But he usually just grabs something from the mess hall, doesn't he? If he eats at all."

"That's right!" she pounced on the opportunity to vent and a finger jabbed him hard in the chest. "He doesn't eat enough to keep a guppy alive and you let him get away with it! It ain't healthy and I've had just about enough!"

"All right, all right, calm down, Cookie." Mr. Finley patted her arm. "I'll talk to him."

"See that you do. And don't call me Cookie! How are you this morning, Johnny?" she asked her biggest fan, going from fighting mad to sweet as honey in the blink of an eye. "Nice to see someone appreciates my work."

"Yes, ma'am," Johnny agreed wholeheartedly, inhaling deeply.

Mr. Finley turned back to the prisoners, grinning. "So, Mr. – Anderson?" He glanced sidelong at the shorter officer for confirmation and received a nod, with a hint of exasperation thrown in. "You've never worked aboard a ship, is that right?" he asked Blaine.

"No, I haven't." Blaine refused to blush.

"Nevertheless, the captain is extending the same offer to you." Mr. Finley's smile was magnanimous – whether or not he knew what that meant. "If you have any interest, that is. Do you?"

Blaine's relief was instantaneous. "Absolutely. Yes, I do. Yes," he confirmed with more enthusiasm than perhaps was warranted. If there was one thing Blaine had always had in spades, it was enthusiasm.

"I'll put that down as a yes, then, shall I?" snarked the unknown officer. He grinned at Blaine, who couldn't help smiling back.

"Yes, please."

"You understand you'd be expected to work?" asked Finley.

Thad developed a sudden cough so severe that he teared up.

"Yes, sir," Blaine gritted through a smile that was all teeth.

Mr. Finley cleared his throat, belatedly realizing he might have phrased that poorly. "Did you, uh, have any particular type of work in mind?"

Drooping shoulders gave Blaine away. "I could, maybe, scrub the deck?"

Finley gaped a bit. "I'm not sure that's–" he began, but was interrupted by the other officer.

"Would you mind showing us your hands?"

"Abe, what are you doing?" Finley asked him and was summarily shushed.

Blaine's cellmates craned their necks to peek over his shoulders as he reluctantly held his hands out, palm up, to give the pirates a good look at his smooth, callous-free skin.

A soft whistle came from the cook. "Wish I had hands that pretty."

Finley shot her a look. "All right, let it go." To Blaine he said, "I don't think we need any deck scrubbing right now. Do you have any other skills?" he asked without a trace of sarcasm, which Blaine truly appreciated.

"Well," Blaine glanced around at the curious faces turned his way, as well as those pretending not to listen. "I studied philosophy at university," he offered.

"Why?" asked Thad, getting a punch in the arm from Johnny.

"I've also studied business, history and science, including a little astronomy." Blaine went on, ignoring Thad. "And Latin, of course," he shrugged, but his confidence began to grow as his audience looked slightly impressed. "I speak Italian and play the pianoforte. Not that you'd have much use for that," he trailed off, remembering where he was.

"Is that all?" asked Thad. Johnny punched him again and Blaine chuckled.

"As a matter of fact, I also sing and dance. I was thinking of joining the circus. What do you think, would they take me?"

"With a mug like that? No way."

Blaine wasn't sure if that was an insult or not. "Uh, thanks?"

"Got all that?" Mr. Finley asked, cocking his head to look at Abe's notes.

"School. Circus. Got it," Abe confirmed and moved on to the next cell while Cook pulled Mr. Finley aside for a few quiet words. Blaine watched nervously while attempting to look like he wasn't watching or nervous. There had to be something he could do. Anything. He'd think of something if it killed him, and if he had to wait in that cell until something came to him, it might.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

**A/N:** Forgive me for picking on Sebastian. Call it payback for Blaine's eye.

Also, I have a note about Johnny. I had researched while writing Chapter 1, but couldn't find a name for this Warbler, other than Beatbox, so I named him after the actor, Jon Hall. Then today I found out Beatbox's name is Richard James. *sigh* Sorry about that. So, for the purposes of this fic, his name will be Richard John James, Jr. And he goes by Johnny.


	3. Methods of Torture

"No." The declaration was firm. Implacable. Predictable. "No, no. Absolutely not."

Lauren waited patiently through the anticipated hissy fit. She didn't say a word.

"No!" A tinge of desperation had crept in. The fit was winding down.

"It's a terrible idea. You know it is. Remember the last time?" He'd moved past denial and into negotiation.

"Please?" It took a strong constitution to resist that face. Lauren was a rock.

She stood and pecked a kiss onto Kurt's forehead before he let it thump to the table. "It'll be fine. You'll see," she said, walking to the door. "Expect us in the morning. Goodnight, Captain. Pleasant dreams." He didn't bother to lift his head to give her a one finger reply.

With a serene smile and the sure knowledge that this was for the best, she let herself out of his room.

* * *

Blaine was sleeping again. Goodness knew there was little else to do. However, he had a good excuse this time. Everyone was asleep. Snores could be heard from all sides.

"Psst. Anderson." He was wrong. Someone was awake and determined that he should join them. A noise that was a cross between a dog's whine and a horse's snuffle passed his lips as he rolled away from the offender.

"Lazy sod." Blaine heard and ignored the whispered complaint. "Wake up." It was harder to ignore the hand that grabbed his shoulder, pulling him forcibly onto his back. If Blaine could have made a fist, that guy would have been in trouble.

"G'way," he mumbled instead. He could always punch the guy later.

"Cook's waiting." There was another shove, this one conveying irritation. "If you want her to leave you alone, you can tell her yourself."

That suggestion was disconcerting enough to get Blaine to open his eyes to see one of the cook's assistants kneeling over him. "Wha?"

Alex rolled his eyes and spoke slowly. "Cook wants to see you in the galley in five minutes. Get off your ass."

"Galley?" Blaine sat up too fast and the room went spinning. But when his vision righted itself, he could see people. There was someone standing at the door to Blaine's cell. He was holding a lantern that reflected soft light off the golden hair falling into his eyes. And a few others were in the room as well, preparing to rouse prisoners from their sleep. He'd read once about people being abducted from their beds. "Somebody already took me," he protested.

Alex glanced at the lantern holder, who shrugged. "Someone took you to the galley?" he asked.

"Galley?" Blaine repeated, scrubbing the back of a hand across his eyes.

"Wow. Not a morning person are you?" observed Alex.

"S'night time," Blaine denied.

"It's past four o'clock and if we don't get a move on, we won't get to eat before the watch bell."

"What?" Blaine heard nothing after 'four o'clock.'

"Oh, for the love of–" Alex groused. "Here." He held out a tiny dish of abrasive, powdery substance and a cup of water containing a small twig, cross-cut on one end. Blaine was finally awake and ready to hug the boy.

He took the precious items, dragging the wet twig slowly through the powder to form delicate white trails, then jammed it into his mouth to scrub vigorously everywhere he could reach. He gave a muffled, "Ohh," and looked at Alex. "Gob blesh you _an_ your phlamly," he mumbled around the rapidly swirling piece of wood. Blaine finally understood how Johnny felt every time someone handed him a generous meal.

The blonde was laughing quietly and Alex was grinning. "Hurry up," he urged. "Cook doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Mmph. No. Yeah. Hurring. One shecond." Foam was starting to dribble down his chin. It was marvelous.

The chill breeze they met with a couple of minutes later, after traversing a series of narrow stairs and passageways, was marvelous too. It was a soothing balm to Blaine's air deprived skin.

His head tilted back and he smiled a greeting to the sky above, still black except for the brightly shining moon sparkling down onto the water to glitter like the distant stars. He heaved a sigh.

Lantern-man chuckled again behind him. "Yeah, it's a beautiful world we live in." Blaine was given a nudge in the back. "You know what else is beautiful? Not being on Cook's bad side. Let's go."

Cook had her back to them, stirring something in a huge pot on an even huger stove when they entered the galley. Billy was there too, slicing loaves of bread. He looked over his shoulder and waved his knife in a friendly manner. Alex headed straight for the cabinets to Cook's left and quickly began pulling out small open crates filled with clean dishes, and setting them on the counter top so they were in easy reach of hungry sailors.

Blaine remembered back when he used to have that kind of energy. Yesterday afternoon.

A low ceiling, combined with the large stove and the tables with benches lining two walls made the room feel smaller than it was. Still, it was clean and warm and welcoming, and Blaine was just happy to be there.

Cook beckoned him to a seat, along with his escort. "Morning, Cook," the blonde greeted her, much too chipper given the hour, in Blaine's opinion. Don't get him wrong, Blaine was ecstatic to be out of his cell. But the only reason to be awake at four a.m. was because you hadn't quite made it to bed yet.

"Good morning, Trout. Ready to play guard dog today?" She took a seat across from them as Alex carried over a tray covered with steaming bowls and cups, setting it down in the middle of the table. Billy joined them with a basket of bread and crock of butter.

"Piece of cake," Trout replied.

"I think you're right. Anderson here is gentle as a lamb, aren't you, Anderson?" She offered him a cup of hot, black coffee, securing her position as his new best friend.

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine was no fool. Cook was clearly responsible for his removal from the brig, on top of handing him this vessel of liquid perfection. She could have said he was an inbred neanderthal and he would have agreed with her.

Fragrant steam wafted toward his face to be breathed in and savored with each sip. The hum of conversation going on around him was a perfect accompaniment, and the last vestiges of restlessness and stress caused by confinement began to float away.

Alex was nice, Blaine mused. His classic features and straight brown hair reminded Blaine of one of his friends from back home. And Billy had a lilting accent that was pleasant to the ears. Trout loved to laugh and had a mouth to inspire all sorts of wicked ideas. And Cook was just likable; smart and forthright and fiercely protective. She had the heart of a lion.

"Anderson?"

"Hmm?" Blaine hit her with one of his irresistibly charming, slightly crooked smiles.

"I asked if you're ready to get started?"

Oh. Was he supposed to have been listening while they talked? Well, he reasoned he couldn't have missed anything too important. After all, it wasn't like he was the decision maker here. His options were to do as he was told or remain in the brig. No option at all, really.

So whatever job Cook had in mind for him, he'd do to the best of his ability. He beamed another bright smile in her direction – she'd earned it by removing him from that stagnant cage. "Looking forward to it. And thank you. I was going a bit stir crazy down there."

Cook smiled back, so that must have been the right answer. "All right then. Billy, will show you what's what." She nodded to the boy in question and he hopped up like she'd just tossed him a prize.

Blaine gulped down the last of his cooling drink before it was too late, only then noticing the dish of boiled oats someone must have placed in front of him. Alex scooped it up and dumped the untouched contents back into the pot while Billy beckoned for Blaine to follow him.

The boy was efficient, there was no denying that, working so fast that Blaine could hardly keep up, let alone decipher the rapid-fire instructions given in Billy's lovely, though thick Irish brogue.

Blaine watched closely while his new teacher showed him around the galley, pointing out the most vital supplies and how they were protected, both from vermin and the ship's constant motion.

In a matter of minutes, Billy had shown him how to prepare a breakfast tray, adding small copper tea kettles – one of boiling water and one of tepid – and placing the burden firmly into Blaine's hands. He then spun Blaine gently by the shoulders to face the door.

The tables had filled, Blaine saw, and he spotted a few fellow captives in the crowd. Each was on his own amongst a group of pirates who talked and gestured while the prisoner listened, hopefully better than Blaine had. He smiled and nodded at the ones who noticed him, walking slowly toward Cook and Trout near the exit and trying hard not to spill a drop from the coffee cup or any of the other items weighing him down.

Before he reached them, his two escorts turned and left. Blaine glanced uncertainly over his shoulder where Billy was urging him to a quicker pace. Blaine did so, following in their wake and keeping his eyes on the tray, his tongue caught between his teeth where it tended to be when he was focused on a particular task.

Hardly looking where he was going, Blaine made it up all the stairs and through the passageways again, proudly grinning at his success in keeping the coffee from sloshing over the side of the cup. Once again, Cook and Trout were standing by a door, waiting for him to catch up and chatting companionably.

When he neared them, Trout pulled open the door and the sudden gust of outdoor air was nearly Blaine's undoing. Only by the skin of his teeth did his luck – and his grip – hold.

At Blaine's cry of, "Whoa!" and white-knuckled clutch on the tray, there was a hearty, though not malicious, laugh from Billy.

"Careful there," he said much too late to be of any use whatsoever, earning himself a baleful glare in return. "Never mind. You'll get the hang of it soon enough. Be quick now, 'fore it all runs cold and you have to start again."

Blaine felt that Billy's wide grin was misplaced, though it might have been funnier if he wasn't the butt of the joke.

He scurried, there was no other word for it, as fast as his determination to not spill would allow, across a short expanse of deck again and through another door. If not for the cool morning air, he'd have broken into a sweat from trying so hard to avoid further mishaps.

Which was why, moments later, he was startled so badly that the whole tray almost crashed to the floor.

Cook was knocking on yet another closed door – Blaine had noticed aboard both ships now that there seemed to be some sort of rule about keeping doors closed – as he hurried closer, Billy hot on his heels. "Captain?" she called out, causing an ominous rattling of dishes when the tray jerked sharply upwards in Blaine's grasp.

He barely had time or breath to squeak, "Captain?" before the door was opened and he was faced with the man himself.

* * *

Kurt was going to have to kill Lauren. It was a shame, her being his best friend, but there was no way around it. She couldn't have known, surely. Yet she had unfailingly chosen the one prisoner Kurt would have avoided from the whole bunch.

Did his friend know him far too well or was he cursed? He would have loved to believe it was the former, but he knew this was just another hit in the never-ending cycle of punishment he called life.

Kurt didn't look directly at the prisoner after the first, split-second glance, busy informing Lauren via telepathy that her days were officially numbered and that now would be a good time for her to seek peace with her maker.

Through his peripheral vision Kurt could see that this meeting was equally shocking to both of them, even if only one of them showed that fact with his unmoderated expression. And apparently equally unpleasant, though undoubtedly for different reasons.

"Good morning, Trout, Billy," he said, stepping aside. "Cook." If words could kill, he wouldn't have had to plan her demise by more physical means, she'd have expired just then.

"Morning, Captain," she cheerfully replied as if it were any other day and not her last. "Did you sleep well?"

Oh, she had a nerve. Kurt had thought to keep the murder painless, in consideration of her best friend status, but for that crack he might have to throw in a bit of torture first. On the bright side, it wouldn't do his reputation any harm to be seen as the cold-blooded bastard he was purported to be. Rumors could only do so much without the occasional physical evidence.

"As always," was his ambiguous answer. Let the others interpret that as they would. Cook would know what it meant, as confirmed by her subsequent worried frown.

"Anderson!" she suddenly barked, only then observing the hapless prisoner still standing, statue-like in the hall. "Bring that over here." She tapped the table with a blunt nail, her good mood seeming to have dimmed. Kurt felt better already. Torture might be sufficient after all, he decided. In truth, it occurred to him that he wouldn't be able to plot a suitable revenge if she were deceased. So Cook would be allowed to live to torment him another day. Kurt sighed inaudibly. He was too soft, letting people live right and left.

Hesitantly, the newcomer stepped over Kurt's threshold, looking surprised that he wasn't struck down by a lightning bolt for his daring. Then Cook's foot tapped impatiently and Anderson hurried forward, wisely understanding that she was more dangerous than any storm.

_Anderson_, Kurt tested the name, curling his tongue around the word inside his mouth, picturing it spelled out in his own neat, loopy handwriting, finding nothing wrong with it no matter how hard he tried. Why couldn't he have been named something more distasteful? Like Spitzfarther or O'Diferous.

Now that the man wasn't facing Kurt directly, the captain allowed his gaze to roam, quickly but thoroughly, examining his prisoner as he might a new quill, looking for obvious imperfections before deciding whether or not to throw it out.

Anderson's beard was growing in, an unfortunate side effect of captivity. Prisoners were not to be trusted with something as potentially deadly as a straight razor. It was also a sad fact, from Kurt's point of view, that most seafaring men, once they could grow a beard, chose to keep it anyway. Fresh water was too precious at sea to be wasted on frivolities, according to some. Pshaw, said Kurt. Looking one's best was never frivolous.

Granted, some men's faces were improved with beards; those with weak chins and droopy jowls. Neither of which was a problem for Anderson. Under the week's growth of stubble, a firm jawline was still clearly visible, as was the perfect chin. His was a very strong, masculine face, offset by eyes that were almost feminine in their beauty, sparkling like clear water over a river of gemstones.

The profile Anderson presented as he stood by the table, looking out of the porthole at the lightening sky, sparked exactly the type of futile longing Kurt had been hoping to avoid. If he was looking for imperfections, he was disappointed. On the surface, at least, he could find none. However, if Cook had her way, Kurt would have plenty of opportunity to discover Anderson's hidden defects. A grating, monotone voice or the intelligence of a sea cucumber weren't outside the realm of possibility. Kurt could hope.

"Well then, Captain," Cook jumped into the silence again, seeing that Kurt had no intention of assisting in her latest scheme to manage his life. "Trout will be right outside your door, so you just go on about your day and he'll see to Anderson in your absence. And Billy here will show Anderson the ropes to get him started. After that he's all yours." She bit back a smirk, luckily for her, or Kurt would have been forced to re-reconsider today being her last on this Earth.

* * *

Blaine turned nervous eyes toward the cook, who, it seemed, was about to abandon him to an unknown fate. Billy would stay, it sounded like, though he didn't like the way she'd indicated that would be only temporary. Why did either he or Billy have to stay? That's what Blaine wanted to know. Wasn't he to be working in the kitchen? Yes. Yes, there must be some sort of misunderstanding.

When she turned for the door, he followed, hoping against hope. Cook stopped and faced him with a frown. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To work in the galley with you?" he braved the question.

Her hands crossed in front of her and chin tilted toward her chest, giving Blaine one of those patented looks only women and judges could pull off.

"And why would Captain Black's new cabin boy be working in the galley? You'll stay here and see that the captain has everything he needs." She shook her head at him in disappointment and he remembered his promise to himself to do whatever was asked of him to the best of his ability.

Being made into the personal servant of the pirate captain, however, had not occurred to him as a possibility.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

**A/N:** They have no idea what they're in for.


	4. Issues of Abandonment and Other Things

The door closed quietly behind Cook and Trout after her parting admonishment to the captain to, "Eat something!" leaving Blaine to stare in dismay at the empty space where she had been. Not for long, however. Only until Billy grabbed his arm, hissing at him to snap out of it.

Snap out of it? Blaine felt like he was going to be sick. How could Cook do this to him. Hadn't they just bonded over coffee?

Feeling nervous and a little betrayed, he allowed Billy to show him quickly around the room, opening latched cabinets built into the walls, stuffing a face cloth and hand towel between Blaine's numb fingers and giving pointed looks when explaining that the captain liked things 'just so.'

The intricately carved, mirrored washstand was last, where Billy began instructing Blaine on proper morning arrangements. "Cap'n likes it hot," he stated, drawing Blaine's attention away from the reflection of Captain Black sipping coffee and scratching notations into a log book at the table as though he were some ordinary, handsome man and not a scary criminal.

"What?" Blaine tried to recapture the words that had led up to Billy's pronouncement, forehead crinkling.

"Not too much, though," the young man went on, unaware he'd lost his audience some time ago. He was blending hot and cool water in the basin and testing it with a finger. "Just a bit for shaving. Save the rest for his washin' up after."

"What exactly does a cabin boy do?" Blaine interrupted, keeping his voice low and leaning in.

Billy pulled a quizzical face, causing Blaine to wonder if his question might have been answered already during one of the several periods that morning when he definitely hadn't been listening. Fortunately for Blaine, the young man had been well taught to follow directions and not talk back. "Cook says it's like bein' a valet and a butler and a house maid, all rolled up into one." A shrug relayed Billy's lack of understanding as to precisely what those job descriptions might entail, but they told Blaine what he needed to know and he tuned out again as Billy returned to teacher mode, waxing philosophical about the best methods for preparing shaving soap.

"Cap'n shaves every morn." Blaine was poked in the arm and given a stern lecturer's gaze, one brow cocked and the other brought low. He recognized it from his Latin tutor, who had labored under the delusion that he could push knowledge into his student's brain with the force of his glare.

Billy, on the other hand, seemed to be expecting an argument against the captain's silly eccentricities and was merely warning him off. When it didn't happen, his position suddenly reversed. "Why he wants rid of perfectly good bristles, I couldn't say," he whispered, shooting a sideways glance. "I'll be able to grow one o' me own soon." Billy raised his voice and puffed his chest.

Resisting the urge to grin, Blaine pursed his lips, giving the boy's smooth chin serious contemplation and nodding in grave assurance that it wouldn't be long at all. Billy beamed and soon afterward declared everything ready, turning his broad smile toward the table.

Captain Black looked up from his work. "Have you finished, then?" he asked with bland politeness. Billy didn't seem put off in the least by the captain's lack of friendliness, but the butterflies in Blaine's stomach didn't care much for the idea of having that non-smile aimed in his direction.

"Yessir, Cap'n!" Billy chimed back. "I'll just be showing Anderson around your wardrobe now, if you don't mind, sir." The question of whether he minded must have been rhetorical, as Billy didn't wait for permission. Instead, he tugged Blaine over to the side of the room opposite the table to an enormous and very heavy looking armoire. Inside of which was a selection of clothing and footwear that made Blaine's mouth fall open in awe.

Shelves, rods and drawers filled up the interior, suitable for storing everything the captain might need and probably a lot he didn't. No corner of space was wasted and Blaine's gaze traveled longingly over a plethora of fitted waistcoats and a dazzling array of shirts in every style and color, many of them obviously imported from around the world. Or not imported at all, Blaine mused, almost laughing aloud with delight. More likely obtained directly from fine tailors in France and Italy and who knew where else.

Blaine didn't consider himself a fop, by any means, but his father had frowned at many an outfit and cautioned Blaine that it was unseemly to wear color. 'Black and white should be sufficient for any man,' he was told more than once, 'but I will allow that brown may occasionally suit for an informal outing.'

Meanwhile his mother would smile and tell him how handsome he looked. But this. This was a collection that Blaine, even at his most rebellious, would not have dared to bring into his father's house.

"Beautiful," he breathed at last, turning a wondrous smile toward Billy and not even flinching from the other steady gaze that regarded him through the mirror.

* * *

_Focus, focus, focus. _The pointless mantra repeated itself in Kurt's head, helping him focus not one whit. On the table in front of him lay his log book, which he kept his eyes on with effort. So far he'd managed to write the date and his name – well, his alias anyway – along with the name of the ship and their approximate location. In other words, nothing.

He would not look toward the washstand, where Anderson stood with his back to Kurt, or allow himself to be distracted by well-fitting breeches covering muscular hips and thighs. No. Kurt sipped at his coffee, keeping his face impassive and his breathing even.

Previous entries in the book detailed their voyage so far and he slowly scanned through them, trying to read since he couldn't write. If only his imagination would stop conjuring impossible scenarios. Because, from somewhere in the back of his mind, had come a little tidbit of knowledge that he tried hard to ignore. But once the idea was there, it implanted itself firmly and wouldn't go away.

Kurt was a pirate. Anderson was his prisoner. Technically, he didn't need his victim's consent.

If Kurt wanted to have a prisoner's wrists tied above his head and attached to an iron ring in the middle of his bedroom ceiling, who would stop him? Certainly not Anderson. He could only shiver and plead while Kurt slowly, carefully snipped the buttons from his shirt. With Kurt's chest against his back and both arms around his lean body, one splayed hand could slide sinuously upward from Anderson's taut abdomen, pulling him closer still, the other following close behind with a tiny, jeweled dagger that would slice through cloth and thread like it wasn't even there.

Kurt would whisper into his ear that no one could save him and Anderson's head would tip back onto Kurt's shoulder. His eyes would flutter closed and his panting breaths would become shuddering moans. And one by one the buttons would fall, clinking to the floor to skitter away out of sight.

'But you don't want to be saved. Do you?' Kurt's feather soft words and warm breath in his captive's ear would draw a gasp of pleasure. 'Do you, Anderson?' The quiet demand would be met with a small shake of the head and breathless surrender, his trembling body going limp in Kurt's arms.

The dagger would drop to the floor and Kurt's insistent hands, pressing against skin grown hot with need, wouldn't pause in their slow caresses. They'd stroke and clench at the lightly muscled chest and follow Kurt's hooded gaze downward, pushing their way past a gaping shirt toward the prominent outline of swollen flesh that begged for his touch.

"I'll be able to grow one o' me own soon." Billy's excited voice shattered the quiet peace of the room, and Kurt was grateful for it. Of course he was. He shouldn't be thinking such things. Anderson was his prisoner! His responsibility. And Kurt was already a wanted man. Did he really need 'sexual deviant' added to the long list of his crimes? Everything else he'd ever done would be nothing compared to that. If there was anyone out there still praying for his soul, they'd be damning him to hell once Anderson's story got out.

With a swift shake to clear his head and his expression, Kurt looked up. "Have you finished, then?"

"Yessir, Cap'n! I'll just be showing Anderson around your wardrobe now, if you don't mind, sir." Kurt made a small gesture of consent and rose to begin his morning routine.

He moved by rote, giving no indication of his wayward thoughts. The dressing gown he wore over his night clothes was sufficiently thick to disguise the effect of his imaginings, and Billy wasn't looking at him anyway. Anderson, it seemed, wouldn't.

Billy had opened the armoire, Kurt saw through the mirror, then stepped back so Anderson could get a good look at what he'd be dealing with; the captain's pride and joy, not that he'd admit it. Kurt waited, not moving or breathing. For some reason that he couldn't understand, it was very important for him to see Anderson's reaction.

Would he laugh? Sneer at Kurt's outrageous vanity? Or would he only see a huge amount of work being heaped upon his previously unsuspecting head.

"Beautiful." The soft whisper let Kurt breathe again, and echoed his own feelings when his captive turned, wearing a stunning smile. He might have intended the smile for Billy, but Kurt felt it to his toes when their eyes met through the glass and it was transferred to him. The admiration Kurt saw reflected there was something he'd never received from anyone.

He'd been humored or scoffed at by some, and his 'quirks' accepted or unnoticed by others, but never before had anyone shown true appreciation of the beauty and variety Kurt had spent so much time and money to cultivate into his wardrobe.

Suddenly, Kurt could envision smothering his captive with the finest clothing and jewelry, taking him to the most exclusive shops in Paris and Milan, giving him anything his heart desired. Even strolling arm-in-arm with him across the bridges of Venice.

But of course, Kurt could do none of those things.

Ruthlessly he pushed aside the yearnings that would lead to nothing but heartache. His time and creativity would be better spent devising a suitable retribution for Lauren. Step one: determine how deliberate her selection of Anderson was for the post of cabin boy. Did she take one look at him and say to herself, 'He's exactly Kurt's type. What a perfect opportunity to tease and torment him with something he can never have.'

That was unfair, though. Lauren would never deliberately hurt him and Kurt knew it. However, he could believe that she would let herself imagine all sorts of ludicrous outcomes. Her over-inflated sense of romance would have jumped from 'Kurt's type' to 'Kurt's soul mate' without regard to impossible odds. He could never pursue a relationship, due to the simple fact that he was a wanted criminal. Lauren seemed to forget that salient fact when it didn't suit her to remember. It was also an unfortunate truth that most men were not attracted to other men and would sooner kill Kurt than kiss him. Lauren, bless her ridiculous heart, imagined that anyone would consider himself lucky to have caught Kurt's eye. History had proven her wrong.

So, had Lauren chosen this particular prisoner because she envisioned a romantic ending for Kurt? Or was he the one being ridiculous. Maybe she'd chosen him because he was the best candidate for the job of cabin boy.

Though Kurt still didn't think he needed a cabin boy, even he would have to agree that it was unfair to ask Alex and Billy to take on any additional burden. Normal kitchen duties already filled more hours of the day than the two boys should have to spend working, and Kurt wouldn't dream of taking one of them away from Lauren. She depended on them. And the fact that they never complained was all the more reason to reward them with more free time, rather than punish them with extra work. That was why Kurt did as much for himself as he could.

But the flip side of that coin was that his self-sufficiency drove Lauren up the proverbial wall (which wasn't so bad) and she never let Kurt hear the end of it (which was very bad). She was bound and determined that he should be treated with the deference due him as captain and, furthermore, that he should expect and accept nothing less.

Kurt pondered his friend's wishes and motives while clearing the unwanted stubble from his face. It was much safer than pondering the other insidious thoughts drummed up by his body's instinctive and unwelcome urges. His gaze flicked to Anderson, who was getting an in-depth description of the armoire's contents – or as in-depth as Billy was capable of, anyway.

The gentle curve of Anderson's mouth at Billy's not-quite-accurate and in some cases just plain wrong terms for Kurt's impressive assortment of accessories gave Kurt hope that this cabin boy nonsense might have one or two benefits he could actually take advantage of.

At the same time, the tight knot that formed in his gut at the sight of those smiles made him ache for benefits that were off limits.

* * *

Blaine was smiling too much. Relaxing his guard and taking these people at face value was a mistake. He knew that. Yet here he was, fighting off another grin when Billy pointed to a selection of finely crafted cufflinks, referring to them as, "Cap'n's doodads."

_Pirates!_ Blaine grimaced. He could _not_ let himself forget that one immutable fact. Pirates lie and cheat and steal. They make people walk the plank for entertainment. Probably. Maybe that one was hard to imagine, but they were still pirates. They pillage and plunder!

All the air leeched slowly from Blaine's lungs.

_He_ could be plundered. Right here in this very room, in fact.

There was nowhere to run.

Captain Black could, theoretically, plunder the stuffing out of him. Again and again.

It must get awfully lonely out at sea for months on end. And the four-poster bed tucked into an alcove in one corner of the room looked very sturdy. So did the table. Roomy too. And the walls. And the floor.

"Is it warm in here?" he mumbled, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Blaine's head was spinning with ideas that hadn't occurred to him before.

Who needed such a heavy, solid wood, sinister looking table in his bedroom anyway? It was even bolted to the floor – like the bed – so it wouldn't move, even under strenuous, vigorous use. Blaine swayed on his feet.

"Hey. You all right there, Anderson?" Irish brogue somehow made concern sound kind of adorable, even to Blaine's foggy mind, and he was tempted to pat Billy on the head, though he doubted the boy would appreciate being treated like a child.

He cleared his throat, casting a nervous look toward the captain. Butterflies erupted again in his belly at meeting a cool gaze. Shaving soap covered half the captain's face, but his eyes stayed on Blaine while another section was scraped clean down one side of his jaw.

"Fine." His voice squeaked off at the end and he coughed, jerking his gaze back to the harmless man-child. "Fine," he tried again, hoping his discomfort wasn't too terribly obvious, to boy or man.

Billy for one, looked dubious, but let Blaine save face by changing the subject. "Okay," was all he said before turning to the captain. "Cap'n, sir. What'll you have today?" The question was confusing to Blaine, but he kept quiet and went back to admiring and envying the wardrobe on display. It was the safest thing in the room to look at.

"Something simple today, I think, Billy." The captain's quiet voice blended with the slow scraping of the blade across his skin. Blaine's eyelids felt heavy at the sound. "The sienna bombazine with pagoda sleeves, please."

Confusion, infused with a tiny hint of panic, was written on Billy's face as he turned back to stare into the wardrobe with Blaine. He didn't move to reach for a shirt, standing still instead and watching the clothes as if the chosen article would present itself.

Blaine waited, glancing between armoire and boy, and daring a quick look over his shoulder before he stepped forward and took down the specified item, handing it to a grateful Billy.

"Heh," the boy laughed nervously, but turned again and held it up for the captain's inspection with only a little doubt still showing. "This one, then, Cap'n?" he asked.

"Yes, that's it," Captain Black quickly confirmed and went back to his shaving. Billy grinned.

"Britches, Cap'n?" he asked next.

"Yes, please," came the reply, causing Billy to giggle and Blaine to frown in puzzlement. Was that a joke?

"I meant which britches, Cap'n?" laughed the boy.

"Oh, well then, you should have said that, Billy," Captain Black calmly replied to his reflection as the razor continued to move slowly over his jaw. Blaine was still confused. Was that a reprimand? It certainly didn't dim the wide grin that split Billy's face from ear to ear. "It's shaping up to be another warm day," said the captain. "Choose something light for me, will you, Billy?"

"Yes, sir!" With a poorly executed, yet enthusiastically delivered salute, Billy turned to the clothes again. And froze, looking uncertain.

He stepped forward and reached out tentatively to touch a pair of pale gray, woolen trousers, glancing sidelong at Blaine.

Blaine shook his head minutely.

Rough fingers glided down to rest on another pair, made of a more lightweight fabric in blue-green, and again Blaine was silently consulted.

Tilting his head slightly, Blaine gave him a disbelieving look, as if to say, 'With sienna? Are you kidding?'

Billy sighed and tried again. His fingers moved restlessly over the wide selection, narrowing in on the browns and whites while keeping an eye out for any negative reaction. Slowly his pointing finger came to a stop on a pair of casual sailor's pants, done in natural linen. Blaine smiled. He could just picture it now. The consummate pirate, standing on deck and looking out to sea with the soft, loose fabric billowing around his legs in the ocean breeze. He'd need a pair of high, leather boots to tuck them into so they wouldn't get in his way. Blaine wouldn't want the captain to trip. And maybe a belt to tie around the waist of his shirt, so it could remain untucked and flutter enticingly around the seat of his trousers.

Blaine browsed for the items automatically, handing his selections off to Billy without taking his own nose out of the armoire. There was so much to see within its packed depths, Blaine felt like a kid in a candy shop. But he reluctantly wrapped up his search with a set of plain bronze cufflinks for the shirt and turned to show them to Billy.

Except it wasn't only the boy that he saw. Captain Black had finished his shave and turned toward them. He was running a soft, damp cloth over his face to clear the last dots of soap from his skin and staring straight at Blaine, who looked back with wide eyes, hoping fervently that the captain wasn't in the mood for some entertainment out by the plank. Blaine presumed there was a plank somewhere on board. It would look odd, though, just sticking out of the side of the ship, waiting for someone to walk it. Did they attach and detach it with every use? Or did the pirates line up and hold onto it, standing on one end rather than nailing it to the deck, so they could bounce and tease and laugh at the terror inflicted on their latest victim? Blaine swayed on his feet again.

Captain Black turned away. "That looks fine. Thank you, Billy."

* * *

It had been a strange day. It certainly gave Blaine plenty to think about as he lay in his cell that night, watching a speck of light from the guards' lanterns as it danced hypnotically among the shadows on the ceiling.

He'd survived. On a ship full of pirates, men as dangerous as a pack of wolves, if rumors were to be believed. And even though he'd been thrown to the alpha wolf, as it were, he'd survived his first day as a cabin boy.

Captain Black had left as soon as he was dressed. Blaine blushed again at the memory of how he'd gasped and spun to face the other way when the far-too-attractive-for-Blaine's-peace-of-mind pirate had walked over to the foot of the bed where Billy had laid out his clothes and let the robe slip from his shoulders to pool around his bare feet.

Of course, there were nightclothes underneath. Blaine hadn't turned fast enough to miss that, any more than he'd missed the way the dark blue silk had clung lovingly to a tight, trim body. A man would have to be dead or straight to not notice something like that, and Blaine was alive and well.

The captain hadn't come back to his cabin while Blaine was there, which should have helped him relax, but didn't. Having lacked any clear direction on how to proceed with his cabin boy duties, Blaine had tidied the room while Trout plopped down on the floor, leaning against the door frame and looking half-asleep. Blaine might have been insulted by the lack of vigilance if he'd given it any thought.

But it was the captain who occupied his mind. Blaine was both afraid of him and drawn to him. And though he didn't want to be afraid, he knew, logically, that only a fool wouldn't be. Which meant his fears were based on preconceptions and not on the evidence of his own eyes. And that bothered him too.

What did he know of the captain? Well, for starters, he was a pirate. There was no escaping that. He'd also attacked the Iron Fist, killed Captain Clarington and imprisoned the rest of them. All very legitimate reasons to fear the man.

Yet he'd shown the prisoners no cruelty at all. Neither had his crew, which spoke volumes about the captain's character. If not for Clarington's death, Captain Black would be guilty of nothing more than stealing whatever it was he had presumably taken from the Iron Fist, and inconveniencing the people aboard. The pirates hadn't even hinted that Blaine or the other passengers might be held for ransom, which they easily could.

None of it made sense to Blaine. There must be pieces to this puzzle that he didn't know and wasn't likely to learn. All he could do was work with the information he had. Namely that Captain Black was cold and emotionless. Or so said his eyes. Did that necessarily make him evil? Or could it be possible that he didn't know how to connect to other people? Or simply didn't want to?

More importantly, why did Blaine care so much?

A quiet sigh passed through him. His thoughts were going in circles. In the end, he still didn't know whether to feel relieved that the pirate seemed to have no plans to kill him or disappointed that the captain seemed to have no plans to kiss him.

And with those conflicting feelings making no headway against each other, Blaine finally drifted into a restless sleep.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you for the reviews, you Beautiful People! Don't think I've forgotten you. Oh, no. It's just that I'd decided my chapters were too short. This one could still be longer, but I've spent enough time already beefing it up.

I hope you like beef.


	5. The Best Medicine

.~.~.~.

_'No. No, please,'_ someone was whimpering. Kurt couldn't tell where it was coming from. Everything was hazy. Not that it mattered. He knew what there was to see and he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Even clenching his eyes closed wouldn't help.

If he looked around he'd see people, all bigger than him. Grown-ups. None of them were looking. They kept working, like they didn't hear the whimpers.

Kurt's father was there too, talking to someone. He didn't hear it either and Kurt couldn't tell him. He couldn't call out or go over and tug on his daddy's hand. He couldn't do anything but watch.

The boy looked at him then. His sad eyes were dry. His lips didn't move, though Kurt could still hear someone making those sounds. When a large hand came to rest on the boy's shoulder, he turned back. He didn't try to push the hand away when the thumb moved up and down on his neck. Kurt could tell he didn't like that. It made Kurt scrunch up his shoulders and wish the hand would stop.

He didn't understand why the boy let that man do things he didn't like. That wasn't his daddy, Kurt could tell, and the boy was older than Kurt – almost as grown up as some of the other people. He was small though; kind of short and skinny. He should get some muscles so he could fight bad people if they tried to hurt him. Kurt's father always told him to eat his vegetables, so he would grow up big and strong. Maybe the other boy's father forgot to make him eat his vegetables.

The big man saw Kurt looking at them. It scared him when the man smiled. He wished his father would finish talking and take Kurt somewhere else. But for now, Kurt stayed where he was, with one hand tight on the ship's rail like he'd been told, being extra careful so he wouldn't fall in the water.

Suddenly there was a lot of noise when the big man started shouting at the other men, telling them what to do. The ship was moving faster and faster. Everything felt so strange and fuzzy. Men were rushing back and forth, floating without moving their legs. Sometimes they would disappear and pop up somewhere else. They were cloudy and hard to see.

Only the boy and the big man and Kurt's father were still normal like him, not fuzzy or floaty or popping in and out, or trying to make the ship go faster, so the land would get farther and farther away. Kurt was worried they might get stuck in the middle of the ocean and never be able to leave.

None of the fuzzy men took any notice when their boss bent down to whisper something in the boy's ear. Kurt's father didn't see it either. He'd been talking to someone for a long time. Kurt couldn't see who it was.

He didn't know what the man said, but he didn't like it. Whatever it was, it made his tummy hurt like that time when he had a fever and all of his dinner came back up.

The boy was looking down at his feet while the boss man talked to him. He started to shake his head and Kurt was happy, but the hand was still there and it moved to the back of the boy's neck and held on tight until the boy stopped shaking his head.

When the hand finally moved away, Kurt could see red fingerprints and he got mad. He wanted his father to yell at the bad man and tell him he couldn't do that. His father wasn't afraid of anything and he could beat up the bad man if he didn't stop. But Kurt's father wasn't looking, so he didn't know he needed to fight the bad man who was yelling something at the boy now and shoving him away.

Kurt started to cry. The boy had turned, walking in the direction the boss man wanted him to go no matter how loud Kurt tried to scream at him to stop. Something bad was going to happen, Kurt was sure of it, if the boy went through that door he was getting closer to.

The boy didn't listen, or he couldn't hear Kurt screaming, and he reached for the door handle. But before he turned it, he turned back to face Kurt. They looked at each other and the boy smiled at him. He didn't blame Kurt for being too little to help. It wasn't his fault. Then he went through the door and he was gone.

.~.~.~.

Kurt awoke gasping and panicked, jerking up in bed, sweating and nauseous. His panting breaths were loud in the quiet cabin and there was wetness on his face.

No matter how many times he relived it, the nightmare never got easier. This time, it had actually been worse. More real.

He didn't know how much of it was based on actual memory and how much was his mind trying to fill in the blanks. What he did remember was the day, all those years ago when he was traveling with his father, that there was a massive manhunt aboard the ship they were on.

Every single person was on deck for a head count. One was missing.

The crew had searched all day, scouring every inch of that ship. Kurt and his father had to stay on deck, out of the way. Crates were opened, trunks overturned, men questioned. Even casks of grog were checked, but he'd known they wouldn't find the boy. He had escaped.

Kurt swung his legs over the side of his bed, thrusting his elbows down onto his knees and pressing curled fists against his leaking eyes.

At the time, he'd been happy, he remembered that very well. Glad that the boy had gotten away and just a little too young to comprehend what it meant to disappear from the ship.

That night, as he and his father had sat in their cabin, Kurt had told him not to worry, that the boy was okay now. His father had been so upset, and Kurt had tried to comfort him by telling him that the bad man wouldn't be able to hurt the boy anymore after he ran away.

Kurt would never forget the growing horror on his father's face as he'd asked question after question and Kurt explained everything he'd seen and thought.

He knew now what it must have cost his father to not confront the captain, but he had refused to let Kurt out of his sight for one moment. Not even to beat the hell out of that man, as he must have so badly wanted to do.

But Kurt's father was neither a fool nor a weakling. He'd spent the rest of the voyage talking to the crew, subtly questioning them about the boy and writing everything down in a journal at night until they put in at the ship's home port a few weeks later.

Kurt and his father had gone straight from the docks to the authorities, where the journal had been handed over, and a very frightened Kurt, strengthened by his father's hand over his, had told the halting and confused tale of how the bad man would touch the boy, even though Kurt didn't think he liked it.

Years later, Kurt had learned that his father hadn't stopped there. As a longtime dock worker turned foreman, Burt Hummel was well known and respected in the shipping community for his honesty and integrity. A few words in the right ears would ensure that a suspected child molester was closely watched. No other boy would be hurt by him without someone knowing. And the close-knit group of sailors who'd lived and worked together for most of their lives, would not let another incident go by unpunished. Whether the authorities did anything or not, the captain would pay for his crimes.

Kurt was angry that the memories were still with him, now that he was awake. He climbed out of bed and dressed quickly. There wasn't enough air in his cabin. He had to get out of there.

Two minutes later, he was clutching a siderail and gulping in deep breaths of the salty breeze. His stomach was still churning and he didn't want to be belowdecks if it decided to purge itself of its meager contents. His hands were trembling and he could feel eyes on him, but his stiff posture didn't invite questions. The night watch left him in peace while he collected himself.

He waited until his stomach had settled enough for him to leave the railing, then his shaky legs took him in the direction of the galley. It was almost morning, judging by the moon's position. Talking to his best friend would surely make him feel better.

No one bothered him along the way, or commented on his red-rimmed eyes and sallow complexion. And if Kurt's crew, those who hadn't known him for half his life, suspected that their captain might not be the heartless bastard he was generally believed to be, well, they kept it to themselves.

* * *

Lauren was at the stove, where she spent a good deal of her time, when she heard footsteps in the passageway. It must have been later than she thought. Normally, breakfast was half ready by the time the boys were up, but here she was just bringing water to a boil after stoking the fire.

She glanced over her shoulder, surprised to see Kurt enter the galley looking haggard and ill. "Captain!" she cried, her work forgotten. She was with him instantly, hurrying across the kitchen as fast as she'd ever done to clasp his arms and look into his face. If she didn't know better, she'd think someone had died. "What is it? What's wrong?"

He summoned up a sickly smile. "Why does something have to be wrong? Maybe I was hungry."

"Tch," she scoffed. "Don't give me any of your nonsense. What happened?"

Kurt's face slowly crumpled, breaking her secretly soft heart right down the middle. "Oh, baby, come here." She tugged him none too gently into her arms, where he sobbed softly, burying his face into her shoulder.

"It's nothing," he complained in a muffled voice full of self-directed frustration. "A stupid bad dream! I have those all the time."

"Shh," soothed Lauren, softly patting his back. "You're allowed to cry, you know."

"Pirate captains do not cry," he sniffled.

"Posh," she scoffed again and kissed his hair. "Captains can do whatever they wish and anyone who doesn't like it can swim home."

Kurt giggled tearfully. "You should be captain and I should be the cook. That way you could terrorize an entire ocean full of men, instead of only this ship."

"Hmph." That idea did have merit. She spent a quick moment considering the possibilities. "You're too scrawny to be a cook," she decided. He chuckled a little less tearfully, still accepting her bone crushing hug.

"Why are you so good to me, Cookie?" His head turned away, cheek resting on her damp shoulder.

"Because you're the best person I know," she answered without hesitation. "And don't call me Cookie."

Kurt laughed again. "You obviously don't know enough people."

"I know the ones that matter. And don't argue with me or I'll stick my thumb in your stew."

Kurt hugged her. "I'm not afraid of you."

"That's because you don't know where my thumb has been." And with that rather disturbing statement she guided him to a bench. "Now sit down. I have some juicy gossip you won't want to miss." She went to pour him a cup of coffee, cheered by the sound of Kurt's gentle, tear-free laughter. She put on a wicked grin to encourage more of it and ignored the puffiness around his eyes as he wiped his face with a handkerchief.

"Don't keep me in suspense." He accepted a mug of the steaming brew he loved so much.

"Well..." she began, dragging out the word for added drama. One could never include too much drama in the telling of juicy gossip. "This morning I decided to take a short stroll on deck before starting work."

"Most people would call three a.m. 'last night,' not 'this morning,'" he piped in.

"I'm an early riser. Don't quibble." Lauren sat next to him with her back to the table. "Anyway, there I was, taking the air and minding my own business."

"I doubt that. Was Puck showing off again? Is that where this is going?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Her nose stuck into the air. "That scoundrel is probably still sleeping off last night's ration of rum and snoring fit to wake the Kraken."

"You would know his sleep habits better than I."

She glared. "Who's telling this story?"

"I beg your pardon. Please continue. You'll not hear another peep from me. No, ma'am. Not one sound. Not even the veriest whisper of –"

"Shut it!" Lauren swatted his arm and Kurt put on his 'perfect innocence' face, which he did very well. "Cheeky," she huffed. "As I was saying," she glared another warning. "...What was I saying?"

"Morning. Air. Own business," Kurt dutifully recited.

"Yes!" Her palms rubbed together gleefully and she hopped to her feet. This story would require show, as well as tell. "So, there I was," one hand swept slowly through the air, "walking."

"You said that already."

Lauren's hands planted themselves on her broad hips; a common signal to those around her to stop talking or start running, or both.

He made a locking motion against his lips, tossing the imaginary key over his shoulder.

"When out of nowhere," Lauren continued, looking from side to side, "came a dreadful moaning," she declared, throwing in a dash of spookiness. This was turning into a campfire story. "'Oh, no!' thought I." Her eyes widened and fingers flew to her cheeks. "Have the spirits come for us? Have we, indeed," she stared frightfully at Kurt, "angered the lost souls who tread, night after night, upon the water than took them from this life?" Lauren gasped. Kurt's eyes rolled. She missed it.

"'O' Spirits! Do not take my brethren!' I cried to them. 'If it is a sacrifice you require, take me, an innocent maiden.'" Kurt choked on his coffee. She didn't miss that.

"You have something to say?" Hands met hips.

Kurt's lips disappeared into his mouth and he shook his head.

Lauren huffed. After several years spent as Kurt's best friend, she was a well-practiced huffer, able to impart a world of attitude or put-upon weariness in a single puff of air. "I thought not." She fell back into character, clasping her hands together over her chest. "I begged them to show mercy," she exclaimed. Kurt nodded along. "I did it for _you_," she emphasized. His lips vanished.

Lauren's eye twitched. "Hmph. The spirits didn't answer," sighed the poor, misunderstood maiden. "What could I do?" Her helpless look said there was nothing. "I decided to seek them out and _make_ them accept my extraordinarily generous and completely selfless act of love for my shipmates."

Kurt blinked. The lips had not shown themselves again.

"Bravely, I crept closer to the tormented, ghostly visitor from beyond." She crouched, tiptoeing between one table and the next. Bravely.

"The otherworldly sounds led me toward the bow and I began to fear, most desperately," she assured, "that one of our own, unfortunate night watchmen had already been taken. And even," she cast Kurt a look of hopeless fright, "that our beloved Blackbird herself had fallen victim and was being steered into the realm of the dead, with a ghostly sailor at the helm."

Lauren paused, watching Kurt expectantly as he sipped his coffee. "Ahem," she insisted.

"Hmm? Oh, sorry." He put down his cup and cleared his throat. "Dearest Cook, say it isn't so!" he supplied.

"It _is_ so," she confirmed with relish.

"But then, how did you save us?" Kurt let his eyes widen. Audience participation was key to a good story.

"Silently, stealthily I moved closer," she informed him, demonstrating her stealth in the quiet kitchen, "determined to banish the spirit or die trying."

Kurt gasped appropriately. "No!"

"Yes!" said Lauren.

"Did you make it to the helm, then, and fend off the ghost?" He gestured toward her to indicate that she was, in fact, here in the galley, and presumably unsacrificed.

"I did, indeed, make it to the helm, where my eyes were met by a sight too horrible for words." A hand slapped over her eyes.

"Be brave, my dear." Kurt snuck another drink before his coffee could go cold.

Lauren nodded jerkily in her overwrought state. "It was," she sniffed loudly, "Jack!" Both hands slapped over her face. Kurt peeked at the clock attached to a shelf on one side of the room. Four o'clock. They should have enough time to let this drama play out. The watch bell wouldn't ring until half-past.

"It was worse than I ever imagined," came her muffled voice. "Poor Jack. Possessed by an unknown force." Lauren peeked over her fingertips and spoke through a gap. "Powerful, like a siren," she whispered, blinking back invisible tears. "A siren only he could hear. She had ensnared him within her dreaded clutches." Her fists clenched over her mouth.

"How could you tell it was a siren if you couldn't hear her call?" Kurt went along, curious where this was going.

"Because–" she paused. "Oh, it's too awful!"

"Be strong." He checked the time again. She was really working for this punchline.

"He was in some sort of trance," Lauren gestured helplessly. Kurt translated the motion into 'dozing,' but that seemed unlikely. Puck would have his brother's head if he found Jake asleep at the wheel.

"He was," she turned away from Kurt's gaze, "doing things."

"Things," he repeated.

Lauren nodded, eyes closed. "To the wheel."

Kurt's eyebrows shot up. "Beg pardon?"

"It wasn't his fault!" Lauren was still deep in character. "The siren – it must have tricked him. He thought it was the creature that he held in his arms. He must have!" she staunchly defended the absent, and evidently confused, Jack.

"What sorts of 'things' did he appear to be doing?" By now, Kurt wasn't certain he wanted to know.

"Oh, Captain," she sniffled, defeated by her inability to withstand such interrogation from her esteemed leader. "Do you recall the ship's wheel, Captain?" Her wide-eyed gaze pleaded with him not to make her say it.

"Yes?" he confirmed hesitantly.

"Then perhaps you'll remember the handles that protrude all around its perimeter?"

Kurt was starting to dread the end of this story with a sort of horrified fascination. "Yes."

"Well, Captain, my Captain," she caught his eye roll that time, "I can think of no reason, except for poor Jack's being under a siren's spell, for him to be licking one of those – um – protrusions," she finished with delicacy.

Kurt gave himself a minute to ponder that visual.

"Captain?"

"Licking, you say," Kurt stalled, still pondering.

"Unwillingly, I assure you, Captain."

"Naturally," was the distracted reply.

"Um, Captain. I hesitate to mention this," she lied, "but I'm afraid there's more."

Kurt grinned. This was turning into one of her better stories. He'd forgotten all about his reason for being in the galley at this hour in the first place. "More? Tell me everything," he quickly demanded. "Er – so we can see that the young man receives the proper help," he concluded more slowly.

* * *

Anderson was not an easy man to awaken when dawn was still a couple of hours distant, Alex was learning. However, with some helpful tips from Trout, he found that a handful of water, if thrown in the face just right, was quite effective.

What Trout failed to mention was that Anderson might swing first and splutter after, teaching Alex a valuable, new lesson about waking a man who'd grown up with an older brother who was fond of pranks.

"Sorry," Blaine mumbled to the young man who was glaring at him from his good eye, while Trout was doubled over outside the cell, shaking with silent laughter.

* * *

_This must be what sleepwalking feels like_, thought Blaine a few minutes later. Because he was walking – he could feel his feet moving – but he wasn't convinced he was awake. Too many hours had passed the night before while he lay staring into space, thinking the unthinkable and calling himself every kind of fool for doing so.

He told himself it was nothing but childish rebellion kicking in again, urging him to do things that would guarantee immediate disinheritance. That was a lie.

If all he wanted was to incite some paternal rage, he could have brought home any man to introduce as his 'special friend.' He certainly didn't need to leave the country to find one. There were plenty of discreet clubs where people of his persuasion tended to gravitate.

No. Blaine's true reason for this voyage was a desperate, driving need to be accepted for who he was. The thought of ending up like so many others he'd met was unbearable; married to women and drinking themselves into oblivion in order to perform their husbandly duties, then hieing themselves off to men's clubs to pick up strangers and forget for a while how miserable they were.

For years Blaine had tried to convince himself he could handle it. He would marry the girl of his father's choosing – didn't matter who – and raise a brood of children. Unlike the others, though, he would be faithful, because he didn't have it in him to be anything else. And because he would owe it to her, whoever she was, after dooming her to a loveless, passionless life. Faithfulness was the least he could give her.

It was a terrifying prospect, made worse with each year that passed and each young lady he was blatantly paraded in front of until, in the end, he couldn't do it; too afraid he would become just like the wretches he'd pitied.

So, he ran. Told his parents that all his friends were touring Europe after finishing university and before settling down, which was true, and letting them believe he'd toe the line when he returned, which was impossible. He wouldn't be returning.

Blaine wanted to fall in love. He wanted to know joy and passion and completeness. Freedom and self-expression. Somewhere in the world was a person who could give him all of those things; who would be his missing half. And with a little luck, they would find each other soon.

His sleepwalking feet had continued to follow Alex while his mind wandered, and they neared the galley before he was distracted from his melancholy.

Someone was laughing. A flat out, uncontrolled, completely infectious laughter that brought a smile to Blaine's face despite having no idea what was so funny. Alex made a dash for the galley and Trout went around Blaine to run ahead and get in on his share of the fun too, leaving him to slowly bring up the rear. Oddly, he felt as though he was about to intrude on a private, family moment.

Coming up on the door, he could hear others as well, a handful of voices now in chorus with that one joyful sound that had swept through Blaine like a blast of emotion. It was more than he could resist, and he quietly moved closer, telling himself that he really had no choice. Trout and Alex were his escorts and he was required to stay with them or risk getting them in trouble. It wasn't only that single, inviting voice drawing him in. That would be silly. He was a grown man, not a pet to be called by its master, no matter how fast his heart raced at the sound. None of his internal reasoning would keep him from looking, however. If only out of curiosity. The man, whoever he was, sounded so happy. Blaine simply had to know.

But he was utterly unprepared for what he saw.

Cook was standing in the middle of the room, hips gyrating in a suggestive manner and arms wrapped around herself, stroking her own sides in a bizarre show of self-love. Her eyes were rolling up into her head and her tongue was waving about, doing lewd things to the air.

Over near the stove, Billy was on the floor, curled up into a wheezing little ball. Alex was laughing too, though much more in control of himself, while Trout was scooting closer to Cook and starting to mimic her movements, probably preparing himself to retell the story later.

And sitting on a bench a few feet from Cook, with his back to the table and profile to Blaine, the captain was bent over, forehead pressed to his knees and hands over his face to try to hold back his shrieks of laughter.

Blaine gaped, staring at the pink-flushed curve of his neck. He watched in disbelief as the captain finally caught his breath and peeked up at Cook, only to lose it again when he saw her.

He was still staring when the captain noticed Trout and his head jerked toward the door. He saw blind panic turn to fury in a heartbeat. Unable to look away, Blaine could only stand there, open-mouthed, glued to the spot as the captain brushed past him, the sound of booted feet rushing up the stairs betraying his feelings. But Blaine was too lost in shock to realize that the captain was running away, humiliated. Too busy trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the laughter – the sound that had slapped him square across the face and left such a smile there – had come from Captain Black. Blaine had wanted it to never stop.

The sudden quiet didn't sink in. Neither did the Cook's rapidly evolving expressions that went from surprise to disappointment to worry to anger in short order.

Everyone else caught on immediately. Trout and the boys wisely set about making breakfast without a word while she scowled fiercely and Anderson remained obliviously trapped within his own thoughts.

She finally stormed over to the stove, where the others were quick to get out of her way, and began banging pots around with unnecessary force and throwing a haphazard meal together for the men to eat at their own risk.

* * *

How long Blaine might have stood, unmoving, in that spot, he had no idea. Eventually, though, Trout put a hand on his shoulder and led him to a table, where he turned a blank look on his friendly guard.

"He'll get over it," said the blonde, with a small, comforting smile. "The captain might be angry right now, but he'll see it isn't your fault."

A feeling of hysteria rose within Blaine, threatening to rip through his chest. He was consumed by the startling knowledge that the man he'd thought frigid and emotionless, and attractive in spite of it, was neither of those things. Captain Black had friends and a sense of humor and a beautiful laugh. So beautiful, in fact, that fear of his obvious anger hadn't crossed Blaine's mind at all.

There was a very good chance he was going insane. He saw that now.

A tray was slammed down on the table under his nose and he nearly jumped right out of his skin. Above him was the cook, leaning menacingly close. Her eyes bored into his and held his gaze as she slowly sat across from him. Behind her, the boys fluttered about nervously, preparing dishes to place gently on the tray before snatching their hands away as though to linger might cost them an arm.

Blaine didn't dare look away from the cook, so he was able to feel the full impact of her slow, dangerous smile. Her teeth were bared, ready to strike.

"Good morning, Anderson."

"Morning?" His quiet response tipped into a question of whether it would be good or not.

Cook leaned back, watching him through slitted eyes. "Do you know why I'm here, Anderson?"

The question confused him, but he had a strong feeling that 'to cook' was not the right answer. He went with something safer. "No, ma'am."

"I am here to ensure that certain people are kept happy and healthy." Her eyes hardened until he shrank slightly under the pressure. "People who happen to be very important to me."

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine thought that was admirable and he was very sorry if he'd interfered with her achieving that goal.

"You might look at this crew and think we're nothing but a bunch of soulless thieves and murderers," she said. Blaine's head shook in automatic denial. Cook ignored him. "But I look at this crew and see my family." She leaned in again. He backed away at an equal pace. "I would do anything to protect my family, Mr. Anderson."

"Yes, ma'am. I respect that, truly, I do. And I can assure you I have no intention–"

"You have been given a very great deal of trust aboard this ship, Mr. Anderson," she cut across his gibbering as if he hadn't spoken. "You have received a privilege that no one else can claim." Her expression became less threatening and more disappointed, and that hurt more than he'd have imagined.

"If you believe for one moment," she went on, "that I would place the responsibility of the captain's personal care in the hands of just anyone, you are severely mistaken, Mr. Anderson." He wished she'd stop calling him that.

In all his years, he couldn't remember a single one of the 'you've let me down' speeches from his father that had affected him more than this one. He felt about two inches tall and yet had no idea what he'd done wrong. "Yes, ma'am." He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"I'm going to give you another chance, Mr. Anderson," she graciously offered, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Not for you, but for the captain," she explained. "I can't always be there to look out for him. So I am counting on you, Mr. Anderson. Do you understand?"

Blaine nodded, not really understanding at all.

Her smile reappeared, still frightening in its threat of quick retribution should he make one wrong move. "That's good," she said through her teeth. "Because I promise you that if you hurt _my_ captain in any way," she paused to let her eyes go flinty again and spoke with deliberate slowness to make sure her point was well received, "I will remove your appendages, one at a time, cook them up and feed them to you."

A cold shiver passed down his spine like an icy finger. Clearly, he'd been worried about the wrong pirate all this time. He could see now why the rest of the crew made such a point to avoid angering her. Still, he hadn't the foggiest idea how or why she thought _he_ could hurt the _captain_, when the reverse seemed so much more likely.

The fury in the captain's eyes came unwillingly back to Blaine's mind and he shivered again. Cook had just said she was giving him another chance, meaning he'd be face-to-face with that fury any minute now. Why had he felt relieved at that?

He was definitely losing his mind.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

**A/N:** Speaking of insanity, I've been writing like crazy all week, when I wasn't doing silly RL stuff that interrupts my important FF sessions. So, enjoy. And thanks again for the reviews! You're lovely.


	6. Whys and Wherefores

**A/N:** I don't normally care for notes at the top of a page, but I got questions after the last update. I was very excited about it too! So here's an extra long chapter with some answers. :)

1. Burt is alive and well and not a pirate.

2. Blaine was escorted back to his cell after his first day of work, like the other prisoners. They aren't going to let him go free just because he's so darn cute. Probably. Yet.

3. Kurt got angry because he was embarrassed to be caught being all human and adorable. Humiliation feels a lot like anger and it can cause some strange behavior.

4. Lauren was angry because her favorite person was happy one second (after a lot of effort on her part) and miserable the next, and Blaine was the trigger. It wasn't rational or fair, but it was how she felt.

Ask more questions anytime and thanks for reading!

* * *

**Chapter 6: Whys and Wherefores**

Hardly a word had passed Blaine's lips since being pulled from a sound sleep that morning. How then, in the space of a few minutes, had he managed – evidently by his mere existence – to infuriate both the captain and the cook, earning himself some very sincere threats of dismemberment and death? And shouldn't that alone have been enough for anyone to have to deal with?

But 'enough' wasn't enough for Blaine. Oh, no. He had to top it off by developing a crush on the most unlikely and unsuitable person imaginable, who, Blaine felt confident, was also dreaming up a nice, painful ending for him at that very moment. A miserable groan slipped out at the thought.

A sharp elbow to his ribs jerked him out of his musings and back to the situation at hand, which was an angry woman and an uncomfortable group of men, all expecting some kind of response from him. The wide hazel eyes, so earnest and trustworthy, that had served Blaine well his whole life without his being fully aware of it were put to good effect then, when he directed a piteous look toward Cook's tight-lipped face. "I'm sorry," he told her. Although he'd done nothing wrong, Blaine did regret the result of showing up when he did. He had a feeling that the kind of uninhibited display he'd witnessed from the captain that morning was something rare and special.

Cook sighed deeply and shook her head, visibly letting go of her anger. "Don't be. It wasn't your fault. I'm afraid I get a tad overprotective at times," she ruefully admitted. Blaine privately agreed, if you could call a mother bear ripping out the throat of an innocent passerby in order to guard her cub a 'tad overprotective.'

She nudged the tray that sat between them on the table. "Get a fresh coffee for the captain and take him this tray, please, Anderson." She smiled; an expression that was much more pleasant without the murderous element to it.

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine returned the gesture and fetched a second steaming mug. As he picked up the tray and prepared to follow Trout, Blaine took a fortifying breath for what he was about to say, though he chickened out at the last second. "I wouldn't deliberately hurt anyone." The words were true, but not what he truly meant, that he didn't want to hurt the _captain_. Considering the bare facts, those at the surface at least, it was hard enough for him to believe. He couldn't imagine anyone else taking something like that at face value. But, looking into the eyes of the captain's self-appointed protector, he had an odd feeling she knew.

"I'm counting on that." She waved him on, only to call out to him on his way through the door. "Anderson!" He craned his neck back with a questioning look and she jabbed a finger in his direction. "Make sure he eats," she ordered, smirking at the look on his face.

Lauren waited until he was gone before allowing a huge smile to grow from the spark of hope that warmed her heart and, she fervently wished, would begin to thaw that of her dearest friend.

* * *

Kurt threw himself face down onto his bed to indulge in short sulk – not something he did often, but he was having one hell of a morning. Without the tight rein he kept on his feelings at all times, they were liable to fly about, bashing others over the head, thoroughly embarrassing him and making it necessary for him to flee the country. In disguise. He might have to grow a beard. He shuddered.

How long had Anderson stood there, watching him cackle like a drunken hyena? Kurt's hands flung forward to grab a soft, fluffy pillow and slap it over the back of his head. Maybe he'd suffocate before any stupid, sexy, unwelcome cabin boys came knocking at his door. Kurt sighed. The way his day was progressing so far suggested he wouldn't be so fortunate. Odds were Anderson would show up while Kurt was pouting into his mattress. His hands disappeared under the down-filled cushion for a good, cathartic yank on his hair in place of the scream of frustration he wanted to let loose before he jumped off the bed to pursue a more dignified pastime. Pacing.

It didn't help.

Fleeing the country wasn't exactly an option either. What Kurt needed was to be still and calm and to wipe all traces of his earlier reaction off of his face, pretending that the morning had never happened. Yes. Denial was a beautiful thing. What would he be doing on a normal day, if no attractive strangers had witnessed him behaving like a loon?

Sitting! He plopped down at the table.

Seconds later his forehead fell into his palms. Why would he be sitting? To work! He snatched a logbook out of the locked cabinet near his table and tried to make himself concentrate. _A ship's captain has many important things to do_, Kurt recited helpfully to himself. _If I could only remember what they are._

The pages blurred before him, coming sharply back into focus when he growled down at the troublesome paper. Yesterday's entry was worthless. He'd have to do better than that, cabin boy or no cabin boy. Kurt growled again for good measure, stifling a giggle at the ridiculous sound and dropping his chin to his chest. "Arrgh," he tried, and laughed, and frowned. He was becoming hysterical.

_C__alm __down! __Think about__ work before you really _do_ turn into a deranged lunatic_. With that in mind, he began to write. First, he noted the indirect route they were using to reach their destination. Puck and Jake, _Jack_, he wrote, because real names were only acceptable in his head, had planned out a circuitous path that would confuse any captives who might try to determine their heading. It was a risk, letting them out of the brig, but it felt too cruel to keep them locked up for months, even if they were prisoners. _Guests!_ Lauren would often correct him. _They are not under arrest!_ Kurt somehow doubted they would see the distinction.

Thinking of Lauren brought another grin to his face. Jake was going to be on the warpath once he learned he was the star of her latest tall tale, and not reflected in the most flattering light. He snickered at the memory of Lauren groping an imaginary ship's wheel.

With the familiarity and comfort of his work routine, and his mind less consumed by his own troubles, Kurt slowly began to unwind, feeling more in control of himself and nearly ready to face Anderson without having a panic attack. So what if the man had been witness to Kurt's temporary lapse into whimsy? No one could have withstood Lauren's clowning. Besides, he could have a laugh if he wanted to. It was his ship. Anderson could try to spread stories, but who would believe them? No one. Kurt was a confirmed misanthrope and everyone knew it.

The real problem – the secret problem and the one Kurt planned to keep that way – was that he felt _too_ much, too deeply. He'd been a sensitive child whose temper had turned volatile and erratic. It was often only his father's calming influence that kept him in check when the slightest provocation could throw Kurt into a fit of epic proportions.

It started when he was still young. He'd lost his mother and for that first year or so it had felt as if he was always on the verge of tears. He began to distance himself from friends and closet himself up in his pain. While his tender mind railed against the unfairness of it all, he flip-flopped between clinging to his father – the only stability he had – and hiding in his room, dealing with the paralyzing fear that if he loved his father too much he would lose him too.

He never talked about his fears with anyone, convinced that to speak of them might make them come true. The first real indication his father saw of Kurt's inner turmoil was when they were out for a walk one day. Kurt was holding his father's hand, as he often did when they left the house, ensuring that his only remaining parent stayed safe. As they meandered through the park, the sound of a horse's whinny drew Kurt's eye. He loved horses and his father had promised he could have one when he got older. But this particular mare was skittish and dancing nervously backwards despite its rider's angry curses and kicks to its flanks.

Kurt instinctively took a step in that direction, ready to pet and soothe the distressed animal, when the man atop the horse brought his crop down in a vicious slash across the mare's rump. Kurt screamed and ran, heedless of the startled horse or swinging crop. And by the time his father was able to pull him away, he was crying and yelling at the top of his lungs, pounding his little fists as hard as he could against the man's leg, the only part of him Kurt could reach, while the rider gaped down at him in shock.

His father carried him home and held Kurt while he cried, while they both cried and Kurt demanded to know why bad things happen. A question that had no answer.

As he grew older, Kurt's emotional state remained fragile and his control over it was always tenuous. It was an effort to stop him from trying to attack someone if he believed an injustice was being dealt, which, unfortunately, happened often. Everyday occurrences, like the scolding of an incorrigible child by an impatient adult, were magnified in his view. Kurt himself saw nothing wrong in his desire to punish those he saw as 'bad people.' The tremendous respect Kurt had for his father allowed Burt to teach him the difference between real and imagined harm, as well as more subtle methods of helping than physically attacking the perpetrators, but it took time.

Obsessively observant of everything that went on around him, Kurt was distrustful of strangers and a passionate defender of innocents. But beneath all his self-righteousness lurked a relentless rage at those who would harm others, at fate for taking his mother, at the law for allowing evil men to walk the street, and at the world in general for ever causing pain. All those things led him toward the events that helped shape him into the man he was.

It just so happened one morning that Kurt was in the right place at the right time to see one of those 'real' injustices his father spoke of. He'd been out patrolling the streets, as he thought of his daily walks, when he witnessed a young girl of eight or nine being snatched from her governess's side.

Only fifteen himself at the time, and never overly large, Kurt nevertheless didn't pause to consider the danger. Something inside him snapped and he acted. There were two men, and although the kidnapper was hardly slowed by the startled and struggling child, and the governess took precious seconds to react with a scream, Kurt was close enough and determined enough to grab onto the waiting carriage as the girl was tossed in and followed by the man who'd thrown her there.

The driver was ready and immediately whipped his horses into action, unprepared for the whirlwind that was Kurt, hurtling into his face with flying fists and a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Vesuvius. What a sight they must have made, careening down the street, a hapless driver being walloped by a boy gone mad, followed before long by the yells of men on horseback, who were spurred into action by the fading screech of a frantic governess.

It hadn't been the best laid plan, taking the child from a public place in broad daylight. The criminals might or might not have escaped with their victim if Kurt hadn't intervened. However, hypothetical 'what ifs' didn't lessen the gratitude of doting parents. The girl was pulled into a crushing hug by her father and wept over by a terrified mother when they all converged on the sheriff's office, much as Kurt was hugged to within an inch of his life when his own parent was summoned and came tearing into the room, needing to see with his own eyes that nothing had happened to his boy.

Kurt himself remained on an adrenaline high, practically twitching with the need to run out and save someone else, but prevented by Burt's iron grip. Only after the questioning was over and they could leave, was he calm enough to endure a hug by the girl's parents without complaint. He brushed off their praise, but the father would not hear of letting Kurt go unrewarded. The man was a wealthy tobacco farmer and his daughter's kidnappers had probably hoped to extort an enormous sum for their crime. Money was the least he could give to the boy who'd saved her life.

Finally relenting, as he really had no choice in the matter, Kurt accepted the offer. He knew nothing about investments or money or how best to use it, but he did purchase the horse he'd always wanted. One or two dashing riding outfits were also necessary, of course, but he didn't want to wear anything too delicate, in case he had to wrestle more kidnappers to the ground. Now that he could cover much more area in a short time during his patrols, it was also important for him to become a proficient rider, able to leap swiftly on and off of the back of his new, beloved, crime-fighting partner. And so his days were spent practicing in the park with the help of a recently acquired step-brother, while his father invested the rest of his reward money on his behalf into, appropriately, tobacco. Kurt detested the smell, but he was fine with letting his father handle the pesky details, as long as he didn't have to go near the stuff.

* * *

"Make sure he eats," Blaine grumbled under his breath, not for the first time, and scowled at the suspiciously shaking shoulders of the blond guard walking ahead. "How am I supposed to _make_ him do anything, I'd like to know," Blaine said to the pirate's back as they neared the captain's door.

Trout stood to one side and aimed his amused gaze at Blaine's unimpressed person. "Well, you could try that kicked puppy face again. Worked like a charm on Cook and she's not an easy one to charm." He knocked firmly on the door.

Blaine gave him a blank look. "What kicked puppy face?" He was almost positive there was an insult in there somewhere.

"Come in." The captain's quiet command saved Trout from answering, as his wide grin said he'd planned, and Blaine got back to the important business of worrying about his own skin. His last sight of the captain hadn't been very promising, though he'd been too flabbergasted at the time to think beyond the smiles and laughter that fury had so suddenly replaced.

"Not bad," said Trout, examining Blaine's face. "A little less fearful and a bit more pathetic," he suggested impudently before pushing open the door in front of Blaine and making himself comfy in the passageway.

Timidly – _since when am I timid?_ – Blaine stepped into the room, not knowing what he'd find there. His eyes immediately sought out Captain Black, who was at the washstand, apparently having just cleaned his teeth. A sharp bite of fresh mint was in the air, teasing Blaine's senses.

"Put it over there," the captain directed when Blaine failed to think of it on his own. He pointed toward the table.

Blaine tore his gaze from the man's reflection and quietly complied, giving Trout one last glance as the door was closing. "Good luck," mouthed the blonde before Blaine was shut into the cabin and a movement drew his attention back to the room's other occupant. The captain had turned and was drying his hands on a towel, regarding Blaine coolly. There wasn't a trace of humor, unfortunately, or anger, fortunately, remaining on his face. Blaine looked away after a few painful seconds and went to put down the tray.

"I've brought your breakfast," he said, wincing at his own inanity. Surely he'd been more intelligent than this before he went to sea. Was there something about the open ocean that caused men to lose their minds? Blaine thought he'd heard something similar in the past.

"Have you eaten?"

Blaine jerked around at the question. "Uh, what? Sir?" Blaine's head shook minutely to clear the fog that made words sound like something else entirely. His eyes widened when the captain tossed the towel aside and came closer.

_This is it. He's going to strangle me now. Less messy than bullets. I wonder if he feels any regret about having to off a perfectly good cabin boy – I hope I'm a good cabin boy – or if I'm only the latest in a string of prisoners Cook has thrown to the Captain like a chew toy for his entertainment._

"Sit."

Hazel eyes blinked and lifted. "What?" he repeated, noticing with gratitude that he was still alive.

"Sit down!"

Blanching, yet fascinated by the display of temper, Blaine sat. Captain Black was wearing his familiar blank mask despite the raised voice and Blaine politely chose not to glance at the red-tipped ears visible in his periphery. A deep inhale caused the captain's chest to expand, his shirt to tighten, and Blaine's attention to stray.

"Anderson."

Blaine's gaze jumped back, guiltily. "Yes, sir?"

"Do you know why you're here?"

_Oh, no. Not this again._ "To... make sure you eat?" If Blaine hadn't been looking right at him, he'd have missed the dimple that appeared and disappeared in a flash. His fascination with this new, responsive captain continued to grow. _I wonder what I'd have to do to get a whole smile. _A few ideas popped into his head.

The enigmatic pirate took a seat at the other side of the table, looking impassive again, though Blaine was beginning to suspect that look to be part of his 'villain' persona. Either that or Blaine was making excuses for him_._ He eyed the cleft in Captain Black's chin from a couple of feet away, noting that it was slightly off-center and sprinkled with a light, mouth-watering layer of golden brown stubble. He licked his lips, more and more convinced that the captain's image was an act. _No one that cute is allowed to be an evil, murdering blight on mankind_.

He'd be willing to bet a month's allowance that the tip of his tongue would fit perfectly into that tiny cleft. A day's growth of beard would add spine-tingling texture and the taste would be salty sweet with a subtle hint of yesterday's shaving cream.

"You're right."

Blaine's musings on tasty facial divots were derailed and he tried to recall what he might have been right about, but he'd lost the thread of the conversation some time ago and those blue depths gave nothing away except what Blaine chose to read there. Knowing that his own thoughts were probably plain to see, his cheeks grew warm. "Sir?"

"You might have noticed that Cook likes the crew to be well fed," said the captain.

Blaine nodded, rejoining the conversation. "Yes, I have noticed that. And not just the Blackbird's crew. One or two of the men below seem happy to stay locked up for as long as Cook will feed them." Blaine grinned and watched the other's gaze drop briefly to his own mouth.

"Was the fare that bad on the Iron Fist?"

"No. No worse than I expected. At least, not for the passengers." Blaine frowned. "The crew's treatment might not have been up to the same standards."

For a moment it looked like the captain wanted to say something else, but he held back. "It wouldn't surprise me," he finally replied. "But on this ship Cook takes it as a personal affront if anyone goes hungry and she isn't always willing to take a person's word for it that he isn't." The dry tone drew another grin from Blaine.

"So, what you're telling me is that Cook thinks you're too thin," Blaine spelled out, "and you disagree." He could hardly believe the relaxed conversation they were having. It was like this morning had never happened. He liked it!

"You might also have noticed that she's a difficult woman to argue with," the captain confirmed in a roundabout fashion.

"How can I help?" Blaine's inner conspirator cheered. As much as he liked the cook – when she wasn't threatening to divide him into small pieces – it was hard to overcome a lifetime of rebelliousness. Plus, his rebellious streak was one of his favorite things about himself.

Captain selected a coffee before a fingertip nudged the tray an inch or two in Blaine's direction. He leaned back in his chair and looked steadily at Blaine. "You can enjoy a little extra of Cook's hard work."

A startled laugh escaped Blaine before he could stop it. "You want me to eat your meals for you? At the risk of sounding like a certain overbearing, motherly type, isn't starving yourself a bit unhealthy?"

"Nothing quite so drastic," the captain contradicted while Blaine tried not to be distracted by the sight of him enjoying his morning drink. His attention span used to be much better. "I was thinking more of a subtle assist. Nothing to draw suspicion."

It struck Blaine as truly funny that this big, bad pirate would go to such lengths to avoid the nagging of one female. "I believe I can manage that." He glanced at the untouched breakfast and back to the thin man. "How hungry would you like to be this morning?"

There was a twitch of lips, Blaine was almost sure of it. "Half a bowl should hold me until lunch."

Blaine had no qualms about showing his own sense of humor and smiled openly. "Yes, sir. After you've had your fill, of course." He stood, not bothering to push the tray back toward the captain, as that might be construed as another form of nagging. "I'd better get your shaving soap ready before the water cools." Blaine picked up the copper kettle and checked to see that it was still hot. "Will you want fresh clothing?" He looked askance at the outfit Captain Black must have thrown on before going to the galley that morning. It looked like he had literally picked up the first things that came to hand.

"Might as well. It's laundry day." The captain inclined his head toward the voluminous armoire. "Someone will be by this morning to collect it," he said, referring to the drawstring bag Billy had instructed Blaine to use for the captain's used clothes, though he'd also muttered in disbelief about the wastefulness of changing clothes 'every blessed day.'

* * *

Captain left the door open on his way out, and Trout took the opportunity to stick his head in. "He hasn't killed you yet?" Pale brows rose in mock surprise.

Chuckling, Blaine went to raid the cleaning supplies. "He had other things to do today," he said, snagging a bottle of polish to work on the floor.

"That's a relief. It's always me who has to mop up the guts." Trout heaved a sigh of vexation. "Do you know how hard it is to get guts off the ceiling? I'll thank you to keep your insides where they are." He slid down the door frame until he was sitting with his legs blocking the exit.

"I'll do my best," promised Blaine, shaking his head at the perpetually tired, but good humored man.

An hour later, Trout's soft snores accompanied the methodical swish of a polishing rag. The repetitive motion was hypnotic and Blaine was a mile away, even as his arm continued in a slow, smooth circle across the gleaming wood.

He was kneeling by the table, remembering that morning's shave. Not his, of course, but Captain's. It was strange that, until the previous day, he had never noticed how erotic the sound of shaving could be. He'd browsed lazily through a stack of shirts, enjoying each soft scrape of the razor and the faint, spicy scent of his soap.

There was the scritch of metal against skin, the dunk and splash as it was rinsed, and the nearly silent wipe against a fluffy towel. Then Blaine would wait, hand poised over a shirt he hadn't bothered to look at until the cycle started again. At the end of the ritual, Blaine had to scramble to find something for the captain to wear and used the excuse of not watching him change clothes to hide his embarrassment.

Blaine's reverie was cut short by loud, clunky footsteps at the other end of the passageway. Most of the floor was done by then, though he could hardly recall cleaning it, so he climbed to his feet and balled up the rag, hurling it across the room and into Trout's slack face with a satisfying 'thwap!' It came flying back with impressive speed and creative insults and Blaine laughed, going to wash his hands.

"Working hard, I see," a snide voice sounded from the hall. In the mirror Blaine saw a dirt-smeared redhead looking between himself and Trout. "Bet you're enjoying the view." His attempted sneer was less than intimidating.

Trout seemed completely unfazed by the sailor's rudeness as he pressed his back into the door frame and slid upward to a standing position. "Looking at Anderson's ass beats your ugly face if that's what you mean." Trout's expression contorted into disgust as he got a whiff of the man. "Smells better too. Have you been sleeping with the pigs again? Puck's liable to drag you behind the ship by a rope if he catches wind of you. Not to mention what Cook'll do if you step foot near her kitchen."

The redhead puffed himself up. "I don't take orders from no woman."

"It's not orders she'll be throwing around. It's the boiling water you'd better watch out for." Trout waved a hand in front of his face. "What do you want?" he asked, to hurry the conversation along.

"Laundry. Abe sent me to get Cap'n's."

"Abe sent you!" the blonde laughed. "Did he happen to suggest washing up first?"

Red sniffed. "And keep Cap'n waiting? I wasn't fallin' for that."

More laughter followed that claim. "I can see you've really thought this through."

Red scowled, apparently not seeing the joke. "Just hand it over," he griped, and Trout, wiping his watering eyes, looked across the room.

Blaine took that as his cue and fetched the bulky sack, moving reluctantly closer to the door, curious who 'the pigs' were and why they smelled like manure. The pristine white cotton bag containing Captain Black's expensive clothing was held tightly in his grip. Instead of holding it out and hurrying the redhead on his way, Blaine was looking dubiously at the dirty hand reaching for it.

"Well?" Red demanded. "Give it here. I ain't got all day to laze around on my ass like _some_." Trout just grinned.

"I don't–" Blaine hesitated. But it was pure instinct that had him yanking the clothes out of reach when the grubby fingers shot forward.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" snarled the pungent sailor. "You'd best remember your place, _prisoner_."

At that, Trout's humor disappeared. He straightened and moved to block any further advance of the man toward Blaine. "His _place_ is here, where Captain Black has entrusted his belongings into Anderson's care, laundry and all."

"Fine," the redhead retorted. "We'll see what happens when Cap'n finds out his fancy togs ain't been washed." His lip curled nastily and he glared at Blaine over the guard's shoulder. "Been too long since I seen a good flogging."

"Is there a problem?"

The foul-smelling sailor turned hastily, sidestepping out of the doorway he'd been blocking and unfortunately deeper into the room. Blaine couldn't see the captain until he came closer, and wondered how much he'd overheard. His death grip on the bag didn't loosen, but his stomach clenched with nervousness. Would Captain Black be angry that Blaine had defied one of his crew? Would he be banished back to the brig?

"No problem, Cap'n," the redhead quickly piped up, standing straight and tugging at the hem of his shirt as if that would create any kind of improvement. "It's laundry today, you know, sir, and Mr. Abraham asked me if I wouldn't mind collecting yours if I had time, so of course I came right down here because we don't want your stuff going last into the water, do we? Everybody knows how the wash water gets after a while, eh, Cap'n?" he babbled, trying to clear up anything his boss might have heard and misinterpreted as disrespectful. "Your prisoner here was bein' difficult, though, and I was explaining how things work around here is all. Nothing to bother your head about, Cap'n. I got it all under control, sir. Me and Andrews here was about to come to an understanding about who's in charge and who's not."

"Anderson," Captain Black replied to the sailor's ill-advised rambling.

"Huh?" The redhead squinted in confusion.

"Yes, Captain?" Blaine answered at the same time and the captain glanced briefly around at him before returning his stony gaze to the unwashed sailor standing inside his private room. Blaine, through careful and meticulous observation – a.k.a. blatant staring – was slowly learning to identify telltale signals of his favorite pirate's mood and he could see definite signs of anger in the stiff way he held himself. What Blaine couldn't be sure of was where that anger was directed. He clutched the top of the bag to his chest and held his head high, prepared to defend his actions, if necessary.

"I said," the captain's voice was dangerously quiet, giving the impression he was too furious to unclench his jaw and yell, "that my assistant's name is Mr. Anderson."

Red stared back, open-mouthed and at a loss. "Uh," he said.

Captain Black ignored him and faced Trout, crooking a brow ever-so-slightly.

"Well, sir," Trout promptly responded to the silent command. "What happened was that Stick showed up looking for your laundry, like he said, and Anderson was reluctant to hand it over under the circumstances." His nose twitched.

The captain didn't look at Blaine to observe his palpable worry or the bag being held like a lifeline. He addressed the redhead – Stick? – again. "I believe you have your answer then, don't you, Mr. Smith?"

A growing flush was visible in spots under the grime and the sailor opened his mouth to argue. Clearly, he didn't know how to take a hint. "But, sir! He's got no right–" Something he saw in the captain's face brought the redhead's tirade to a stuttering halt. From where he stood, Blaine couldn't see it, but he could imagine the almost tangible threat of imminent death and wasn't sorry to miss it.

"On the contrary, Mr. Anderson has followed my orders precisely."

If there'd been any remaining doubt that the conversation was over, the captain's tone made it clear enough and with a muttered "Yes, sir," the sailor departed, squeezing carefully past the captain and leaving only his stench behind.

"Sorry about that, Captain." Trout grimaced.

It was a while before there was any response as the captain took deep, calming breaths. Then he turned toward them. "This might be a good time to open a window." Finally, he was looking at Blaine, who _could_ take a hint and walked over to unlatch the small porthole and let in a waft of fresh, sea air.

"What really happened?" Captain asked Trout, who chuckled at the insightful question.

"Abe's got a wicked sense of humor," he explained.

"Abe sent him here in that condition?"

"Not exactly," said Trout with a rueful smile. "Abe told him to clean up, knowing damn well he wouldn't and that there was a fair chance he'd run into you down here."

"You think he was set up then," said the captain.

Trout shrugged. "I think Abe gave him enough rope to hang himself and Stick wrapped the noose good and tight around his own neck."

With a nod of understanding, the captain glanced quickly at Blaine, who stood across the room, avidly watching the exchange and absorbing every word. "Did I hear him making threats as I arrived?" Blaine's breath caught in his throat when he heard that note of danger seep into Captain's voice again.

"I don't know if I'd call it a threat. Stick likes to run off at the mouth. Makes him feel big to push other people around."

The captain's rigid posture began to relax at last and Blaine felt his own tension start to ease at the sight. "You may be right about that," Captain said. "I'll speak to Abe and the others about reevaluating his place with this crew." He tapped a slim finger to his chin, unintentionally capturing Blaine's interest with the small movement. "Meanwhile, as Mr. Smith demonstrably has no objection to odor, it seems appropriate to reassign him." Blue eyes gleamed in a rare show of humor. "You may tell Abe to switch him from any other collateral duties to chamber pots for the remainder of the trip."

"Aye, sir." Trout grinned at the suitable punishment and Blaine found it very telling that certain members of Captain's crew were so completely comfortable around him.

"After that you should get some rest."

Trout looked at Blaine and back. "Are you sure, Captain?"

Captain waved off his concern. "We'll be fine." Blaine swallowed at that 'we.'

He stood immobile by the open porthole, still clutching the bag that had caused more trouble than he'd ever imagined could come from a pile of dirty clothes. Trout was gone and they were alone, just Blaine and a man who might or might not be as angry with him as he'd been with the acrid redhead – and what kind of stupid name was Stick anyway? Who wanted to be called after a dead branch? And what did he mean when he said it had been too long since their last flogging? How long was too long? And why wasn't there enough air in this cabin?

Then Captain was looking at him. No spark of feeling was left showing in those gorgeous blue orbs. Blaine missed the spark already.

"Follow me." The captain left without another word and Blaine, figuring he'd pushed his luck far enough for one day, didn't ask questions.

Contentious laundry bag still in hand, he followed as they left the cabin and the passageway, emerging on deck into bright sunlight. Blaine squinted and ducked his head, keeping an eye on Captain's back, which Blaine could admit was no hardship, and sticking close enough to hear it if he said anything else. He didn't.

They turned left, heading for the rail, rather than the forward deckhouse Blaine was more familiar with as it led to the galley on one of the lower levels. He might have slowed a teensy bit as his feet carried him closer to the side of the ship and the open ocean, but he did keep following, as instructed, breathing easier when they veered left again around the main deckhouse and toward the rear of the ship.

Above and in front of them, enormous, square-rigged sails filled Blaine's view. They were swollen with wind, creating a continuous creaking of rope, canvas and wood. Yet, surprisingly, the ship didn't seem to be making great speed despite the sails' best efforts.

"Captain?" he started, before he remembered that he was trying to stay on the pirate's good side and asking questions might not be the best way to go about it. Particularly if his question was why the ship lacked speed and could, conceivably, be seen as mildly offensive to the given ship's captain. But it was too late. The pirate had stopped and was turning about to face him. Blaine's gaze dropped from the sails to look at the handsome features with trepidation. He'd opened his mouth to say, 'Never mind,' when his peripheral vision spotted a shape out in the water. "Captain!" he cried, and dropped like a stone.

From his new vantage point, sprawled out on the deck of the ship, Blaine stared pleadingly up at the man above him, even going so far as to wrap a hand around a boot-clad ankle. "Captain! Captain!" Blaine tried to warn him. "Get down!"

Faster than he could blink, the captain's gun was in his hand and he had pivoted to look behind him, ready to shoot at the first sign of trouble.

"Captain! Please!" Blaine was frantic, two hands now slipping over leather-encased calves and fear knotting in his chest, as he desperately urged his crush to join him on the ground, unwilling to go so far as to trip him just yet. Captain ignored his tugs and pleas like so much salt spray on the wind, scanning the ship and horizon for danger until he slowly spun to look down on Blaine again, pistol held in a white-knuckled grip and one steady finger on the trigger. The weapon was aimed at the floor near his feet and consequently near Blaine's torso, and the fury, for a change, was burning in his eyes with no mask to cover it. Blaine would have been proud of himself for provoking such an honest and visible reaction if he hadn't been so busy panicking.

"What the hell are you playing at?" the captain bit out, glaring down from his superior height.

Confused and frightened, Blaine didn't know what to say. Everything had turned surreal. Belatedly, he became aware of several sailors who'd been working nearby, each one now staring at him. Only the sails continued to move while everything and everyone else was motionless and waiting. Instead of mayhem and explosions and men rushing about, there was a frozen tableau hinging on Blaine's next move. It made no sense. Slowly, he got to his feet. If he was the only one who could see another ship looming behind them, then his sanity had slipped further than he'd realized.

The pirate's jaw clenched and his gun was shoved roughly back into its holster, though Blaine knew, if Captain wished, it could be drawn again and fired point blank at his chest before he could say 'don't shoot.'

"Captain, I–" Blaine's hands spread before him in wordless appeal, his eyes darting between ship and man. How should he explain what was glaringly obvious? "Sir, the ship. Shouldn't you be taking cover or manning the guns or something?" he hesitantly suggested.

* * *

All the anger that had flooded Kurt's body and set his teeth on edge the instant he realized his cabin boy was trying to make a fool of him, began to disintegrate at an equally alarming rate. Now he was trying to wrap his brain around what had just happened. If he understood Anderson correctly, and assuming he wasn't lying to save his own neck, this man – Kurt's unwilling prisoner – had believed they were under attack and his first thought had been to protect Kurt. It boggled the mind.

Deep breaths usually helped get his emotions under control, so Kurt gulped in lungfuls of air in an attempt to calm down before he started shaking with reaction to so many opposing feelings. He set aside his amazement and disbelief until a time when he was alone to study them. For now he would concentrate on the facts and clear up the obvious misunderstanding.

With one look over his shoulder, Kurt stopped his crew from gawking and sent them all hopping back to work, allowing him to speak to Anderson without the gossips hanging on their every word. His heart had stopped racing and his expression cleared, unlike the man before him, who looked anxious and confused and on the verge of a breakdown.

"If you will look closely, Mr. Anderson, I believe you'll see not only that the deck of that ship is all but deserted, but that the ship itself is familiar to you."

A stunned gaze locked over Kurt's shoulder and he could see the moment realization set in. Anderson's mouth fell open. "The Iron Fist? What's it doing here? I thought we'd left that behind more than a week ago." Wide hazel eyes jumped back to Kurt. "Is your crew sailing her? Have we been going in circles all this time?"

Kurt sighed, releasing the last of his tension; well, as much as he ever released. "No and no," he answered shortly.

"But then how is it here? Why is it here?" The dark head tilted in child-like curiosity, anxiety vanished from his features.

Normally, Kurt would ignore such impertinent questions and remind his prisoner that the Iron Fist was not his concern, nor were any of Kurt's actions. The words never made it past his lips, however. Anderson was harmless and hadn't asked anything that the other prisoners couldn't have told him. In fact, Kurt was surprised he hadn't heard all about it in the brig the night before. Word must have spread like wildfire after the handful of prisoners had seen the ship on their first day out of their cells.

In the end, Kurt saw no harm in telling him the obvious. "It's here because we're towing it."

"Towing!" Anderson repeated at an unnecessary volume. The laughter of two nearby sailors confirmed that this story would be all over the ship by dinnertime. "You can do that?"

Kurt actually closed his eyes, drawing in another deep breath and praying for patience. "You see it there, don't you?" Sarcasm got the better of him. Kurt's cabin boy brought out all sorts of traits he usually kept buried.

"Oh." Anderson finally clued in and remembered who it was he was talking to. "Yes, of course. Sorry, Captain." He bent over to retrieve the bag he'd dropped in his haste to dodge flying bullets or whatever he thought he was dodging. "I guess I thought the ship would have been looted and burned or abandoned or something. That's what I've always heard about pir– ah, battles at sea." Anderson flushed slightly, looking down.

It was irritatingly difficult to stay mad at this man. If Kurt wasn't so practiced at keeping a straight face, he might have smiled when Anderson so blatantly avoided calling them pirates. Almost as if he didn't want to hurt Kurt's feelings. The man was a puzzle, wrapped in curiosity and covered with conundrum.

He was a puzzle Kurt would have loved to solve, if he could. It was out of the question, though, and wishing never did anyone any good, so it was best to keep his distance. Anderson would be gone in a couple of months at most and the only thought he'd give Kurt in the future – if he ever thought of him at all – would be to thank his lucky stars that he'd escaped with his life.

"Others might have looted and burned her," Kurt heard himself say, "but I have specific reasons for what I do." _Except for telling you this,_ he thought. _Explaining myself to you is unfathomable._ Only his most trusted circle of friends and family were aware of his reasons for choosing the targets he did, or that he chose his targets at all. Very carefully, in fact.

Anderson just stared at him thoughtfully, making Kurt uncomfortably aware that he was being nice. He should do something about that before his reputation suffered irreparable harm. Perhaps he could visit the brig again and scare the piss out of that snooty first officer. If they _were_ to have a good flogging on this trip, it couldn't happen to a nicer fellow.

Not that he'd really have someone beaten near to death without a damn good reason, but it made him feel more piratey to tell himself he would. Although, he'd been tempted earlier to let Stick personally enjoy the lashing he claimed to crave. Which reminded Kurt, he needed to talk to Artie and see about dropping that sailor from the crew. It would have to be done carefully. Kurt couldn't have the man blabbing things about the Blackbird that ought not be blabbed.

Between them, he and Artie and Puck should be able to convince the thick-skulled redhead not only that he _wanted_ to leave, but that it would be in his own best interests to keep his mouth shut and forget he'd ever heard of the Blackbird.

Anderson shifted uncomfortably. "Captain," he paused, nibbling distractingly on his lower lip and evidently choosing his words before he continued. "I'm sorry for panicking just now and for grabbing you." He was bravely looking Kurt right in the neck. "It was purely instinct."

_I know. That's what makes it so strange, that your instinct was to save me._

"And I'm sorry for," running low on bravery, it seemed, Anderson now found Kurt's shoes fascinating. "I'm sorry for anything else I might have done to upset you today."

Kurt sucked in a breath, willing himself not to react to the unwelcome reference to that morning's debacle. They'd been doing so well at pretending it never happened. _Denial, denial, denial._ Slowly, Kurt turned his back on the prisoner and continued walking toward the stern of the ship. "Come on," was all he said and heard his cabin boy fall into step behind him. Kurt just wanted to get blind drunk and wipe this day from his memory.

It didn't take long to reach the rather spacious workroom his men had built right on top of the deck for doing the wash. They'd found it too hot to work belowdecks and too windy to work out in the open with clothes that would blow away, and so had compromised by building a structure that, granted, would cause drag and slow the ship somewhat, but could easily be knocked down and, if necessary, thrown overboard to increase their speed. Kurt still didn't know how he'd let them talk him into it. His men were shamefully spoiled. He blamed Cook.

Two doors on either side of the workroom were lashed open, letting through a constant, refreshing breeze to blow away the steam from a wide, low tub of hot, soapy water. It was set on a raised platform to ease the back-breaking chore on the men. Kurt inwardly sighed. All the other pirate captains would be laughing their asses off if they knew how pampered his men were.

Tibby and Dom were already hard at work, sorting items into stacks that would have been much larger if he and Lauren weren't the only ones who found it necessary to wear a fresh change of clothes each and every day. The men might have been pampered, but they were still men, unconcerned with a little dirt and sweat. He was immune to it now, but it had taken time for Kurt to adjust to such a mentality. Not to mention the smell.

"Good morning, Captain!" Tibby called out when he was spotted and the two men dropped what they were doing to join him outside the workroom. "What can we do for you this fine day?" Tibby was another one like Trout, whose cheery personality was as bright and dependable as the sun.

"Good morning, Tibby. Dom." Kurt greeted them and inclined his head toward his silent companion. "This is Anderson. He's volunteered to help out with the wash today." Anderson shot him a quick look, but didn't argue. Instead, he held out a hand to the men.

"Blaine Anderson," he introduced himself. Kurt filed the uncommon name away for later consideration.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Tibby in his unique way. Kurt envied his ability to see the good in people and make instant friends everywhere he went. "Good to meet you, Anderson. We'll be glad of the help." His infectious smile soon spread to both Dom and Anderson, leaving Kurt caught in the toothy crossfire.

Clearing his throat, Kurt got everyone's attention back on him, expectant looks all around. "I'll leave you all to it, then, and come back to collect Anderson later." His men were aware of their responsibilities when it came to keeping an eye on the prisoners. Kurt knew he had nothing to worry about. So, why he was reluctant to leave was a mystery. He ignored the unwelcome sensation and went in search of Artie.

For two hours he stayed away. Kurt was pretty proud of himself too, because it proved that Anderson had no hold over him. The cabin boy was there to serve him strictly in a master/servant capacity... Wait, no. Strictly employer/employee. With no unneccessary touching involved, whatsoever. That man could go around being all handsome and sexy as much as he wanted and it would have no effect on Kurt. None. No– Kurt's mental reasoning came to a dead stop when he reached the workroom.

Anderson – his untouchable cabin boy – was bent over the washtub with the others, talking and joking and scrubbing away. Kurt might have expected that much, as he'd noticed his prisoner didn't shy away or turn up his nose at hard work. What he hadn't expected was that his cabin boy – the untouchable one – would have stripped down to his knee breeches. Or that his smooth, tanned skin would be glistening all over with sweat, or that his hair would have been washed free of the week-old hair wax previously slicking it to his head. And he certainly hadn't expected the slick hair to transform into a delightful mass of black curls, shining with water droplets and swaying wetly around Anderson's face as he scrubbed.

Tibby's head tilted in his direction, alerting the others to his presence. Like a bizarre reversal of that morning, Anderson was the one caught unawares, startled to find himself being watched. But unlike Kurt, he showed no embarrassment. Anderson's response was to grin and wave a soapy hand, splattering suds into Dom's face and kicking off a three-way battle of splashes that Kurt suspected wasn't the first, and an all-out barefoot chase around and around the tub that was punctuated by slippery crashes to the floor and shouted taunts of superiority, and ended with Anderson's total, flailing submersion in the tub.

The sound of his laughter was like music, as if his looks and personality weren't enough for Kurt to have to deal with. But Kurt stayed put anyway, watching and listening while three grown men frolicked like carefree children. It was kind of remarkable how comfortable his prisoner was; how easily he fit in with a bunch of supposedly cut-throat pirates, as though he didn't judge them at all.

What a ludicrous thought. Kurt snorted. Of course someone like Anderson would be judging and condemning them in his mind. He was simply not foolish enough to let his disdain show, being surrounded by the enemy like he was. Anderson was obviously sneaky and clever. Kurt would do well to remember that.

Nevertheless, he watched the drenched man clamber out of the tub, roaring with laughter and slinging his head wildly to send excess water flying at his cohorts. Then he bent over, propping his hands on his knees for support while he recovered his breath and creating a puddle at his feet with the water dripping from his pants. That was when it occurred to Kurt that the knee breeches had been dry when he arrived. Yet Anderson's hair and possibly the rest of him had been dunked in his absence. Kurt's mouth watered.

It was several interminable seconds before Anderson straightened, placing strong hands on the small of his back and stretching beautifully to rid himself of kinks. Thickly muscled arms and a rippling abdomen came as another unpleasant shock to Kurt's system. He wouldn't lie to himself and say he hadn't pictured what the man would look like shirtless, but the truth of Anderson's body put Kurt's imagination to shame. How had a man who'd probably never had to work a day in his life come to look like that? Must he be so absolutely and frustratingly perfect in every way? Why couldn't Kurt ever catch a break?

Anderson trotted over to him, blissfully ignorant of the conflict he was creating within Kurt's mind and body and smiling like an old friend, which was frankly uncalled for. "Captain." He stopped a couple of feet away, all smiles and relaxation. "Your clothes should be dry soon," he said. Kurt pointedly kept his gaze at eye level and remembered to breathe calmly. "I washed them in cold water so nothing would shrink and hung them up right away because I wasn't sure how soon you'd be back."

Kurt nodded his acknowledgement. "You're wet," his runaway mouth informed the cabin boy.

Another broad smile added to the brightness of the sunny day. "Yeah, sorry. The guys were great, though. After I finished with your things, I asked how mad they'd be if I took a dive in that soapy water. I haven't seen a tub since I got here and, well, I could hardly stand to smell myself anymore." Anderson laughingly explained. Kurt's face was itching to frown, but he kept still. His prisoners had been denied something as basic as the opportunity to wash themselves for over week. Kurt would have been screaming the walls down and tearing his hair out in their place. As it was, someone else would be paying that price.

"I see," was all he said. "I've got one more thing I need to do this morning. You can finish up here and I'll be back to collect you in about half an hour."

"Yes, sir." Anderson stared at him curiously and shook his head when he didn't find whatever it was he was looking for. Kurt congratulated himself on keeping his budding temper hidden from view.

* * *

Dinner was a noisy affair back in the brig. Another group of captive sailors had been outside and were full of talk about the ship, the pirates, the weather, and even the dolphins that had followed them for a while. It was unending.

Add to that everyone's surprise when buckets and buckets of warm water, soap and washrags had been toted down by a half-dozen pirates and a red-faced Mr. Finley as soon as the prisoners returned that afternoon and there was no shutting them up. Most of the men were less interested in cleanliness than in a finely crafted ship and a good day's sailing, but they didn't object to stripping down and washing if there was nothing better to do. Mr. Finley also let it slip that dinner wouldn't be served until Cook's sensitive nose was no longer offended by the overpowering smell, which got the men moving like nothing else could have.

Apparently the women had disappeared for over an hour behind their little curtain, sighing loudly in bliss over the next best thing to a bath while simultaneously avoiding the scandalous and never-to-be-talked-about room full of unclothed men.

Or so Blaine was told.

He'd been escorted back well after the others and couldn't believe they'd _finally_ gotten to wash, and he'd missed it. It was just a lucky break for him that he'd had his own chance to bathe that day or he'd have been really upset. As it turned out, though, he'd been the only one able to dunk his whole head and scrub to his heart's content, as well as strip down and wash the rest of himself with a rag. And then, of course, he'd gotten wet all over when the guys allied together to throw him into the water. He smiled again at the memory.

Blaine was feeling great, but exhausted from another early morning and a long day of work, so he listened to his cellmates talking over one another without joining in on the rapid-fire conversation. He also wasn't particularly hungry after helping Captain finish his lunch. He did eat, though, knowing there'd be questions if he didn't, then stretched out on the floor at the back of the cell.

"Blaine! What are you doing? It's early yet!" Thad chided. He'd been one of the fortunate that day and was still buzzing with energy after hours of fresh air and exercise.

"I'm tired," Blaine responded, keeping his eyes closed in the hope it would discourage any further questions. It didn't.

"Bah, don't be such an old lady. You crashed last night without a word. Now get up and tell us what they've got you doing? I think you're the only one that went up two days running." A chorus of agreement went up from his cellmates and Blaine's dreams of an early night to make up for lying there sleepless the night before vanished into the aether.

He groaned, resignedly, and looked at the ceiling. They'd have to know sometime. "I'm the captain's cabin boy." Blaine's self-deprecating chuckle filled the sudden hush.

"What did he say?" someone whispered in horrified shock. Blaine thought it might have been Trent.

Thad cleared his throat when the silence stretched on too long. "You're, uh... You're... What?"

Forehead knitting at the overreaction of his cellmates, plus one guy in the next cell over, Blaine saw as he looked from face to face, he conveniently forgot his own heart-stopping trauma when presented with the same news a mere one day ago. "I don't know anything about sailing a ship, and the cook thought being a cabin boy might be more my speed. She was right, you know? Fetching and carrying, I can do, and tidying up and polishing boots. That sort of thing." _And __preparing a perfect cup of coffee for the captain to enjoy so much it makes __his eyelids flutter__. I can do that._

"But," Thad began slowly and carefully.

"It's Captain Black!" blurted Trent, who's horror was undiminished.

The silence around them expanded to include more of the room. Men peered curiously their way after checking the door to see if the pirate had been spotted. "I know," said Blaine. "It's not like it was my idea, but if it gets me out of here for a few hours, it's worth it." No need to mention the fun he'd had doing laundry of all things.

"What's he like?"

Blaine's head rolled to one side. Trent was staring at him, looking like he'd seen a ghost. His whispered question hung in the air, reinforced by nodding heads, and Blaine sighed, considering how to answer. What would Captain want him to reveal? Or not reveal, more like.

Facing the ceiling again, he decided to be selectively honest. "Well, you've all seen him. He's a hard man to read." _I want to understand him, but he's good at hiding his thoughts and feelings__._ "He's very quiet, in a 'don't talk to me if you'd like to keep breathing' type of way. It's scary." That had been Blaine's first impression, so not a lie. "And, well, to be honest, he's really intense, like a volcano that could erupt at any time and kill everything in its path." _And destroy itself in the process._ "He seems very focused and determined and not inclined to let anything or anyone," Blaine gestured at himself and his cellmates, "get in his way." _There's a reason for what he's doing. I don't think he meant to tell __me that. And I'm not sure it has anything to do with treasure._ "I'll tell you one thing: I do not want to be the one to set off his temper, because it's boiling just under the surface." _Setting it off by accident nearly got me shot and __I know a certain smelly redhead who was lucky to walk away with his skin this morning._

Blaine looked around again at his gaping friends. "I'll just keep my head down, answer when spoken to, and do as I'm told, thanks." _He__'s intimidating__, __but __I can't help want__ing__ to be near him._

Unlike Trent and, to some degree, Thad, Johnny hadn't fallen into a shocked trance. "So, you're doing all right then? Because if you hate it, we could talk to Cook. If it was her idea, she might be able to help get you out of it. Maybe even let you help in the kitchen or something. I offered, but she said she needed helpers who'd leave something for the rest of the crew." He grinned sheepishly.

Blaine smiled warmly at his new friend. It was always nice to have people looking out for your best interests. "Thanks, Johnny, but I really am all right. I've survived two days already and if I work hard he probably won't kill me." _He smells heavenly and I'd like to know if he tastes as good._

Over Johnny's shoulder, Blaine noticed Smythe standing as close as the iron bars would allow, which fortunately was still eight feet away, as there was a cell between them, and looking right at him. It was disconcerting to say the least. There was a calculating glint in his eyes that Blaine didn't like one bit.

He'd been wary of the Iron Fist's first officer ever since their first night at sea. The passengers had been invited to join the senior officers for dinner and Smythe had been staring at him then, too. It was creepy, like the oily smile Smythe wore when he'd judged the staring to have gone on long enough and actually approached Blaine. Oddly enough, the cocky first mate seemed to be under the impression that Blaine would enjoy being ogled like a particularly succulent hunk of beef. But if it was meant to be charming or appealing in some way, it missed the mark with Blaine. To him it was more a case of feeling like a mouse being thoroughly sniffed by a drooling cat.

The look he was on the receiving end of now, however, was less devouring and more plotting. Either way, Blaine was suddenly grateful to be locked in a cell and out of his reach.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

**A/N:** Writer's block. Urgh. I worked way too hard on this chapter and I'm so tired I've hardly proofed it. I'll reread it after a nap. Also, should I post a cast-list on my profile page to keep all the names straight?

Side note: Did you know that wherefore means why, not where? Weird.


	7. Facts, Misunderstandings and Lies

a.k.a.: the FML chapter

* * *

Their deception was working. Cook was so pleased with the captain's increased appetite that Blaine actually felt guilty. However, he comforted himself with the knowledge that Captain was happy, Cook was happy and everyone who benefited from their good moods was happy. So his being stuffed like the proverbial fatted calf was a small price to pay. That's what he told himself.

"What's wrong?" Captain was looking up at him from the sheaf of papers he'd been reading through and jotting down notes from.

"Nothing, sir. Why would you think anything's wrong?" Blaine's quizzical frown was genuine.

"You groaned as though you're in pain."

Blaine grimaced. "Sorry."

Captain sat back in his chair, wiping the tip of his quill on an ink-stained cloth. "What is it?"

Hearing the no-nonsense tone, Blaine didn't bother skirting around the issue. Much. "It's nothing, really. I'm just full." He waved it off as unimportant. "I'm used to smaller portions and more exercise, that's all." Blaine patted his stomach. "There are worse problems than having too much to eat." He broke out his well practiced, so-charming-you-forget-your-own-name-nevermind- this-line-of-questioning smile. Patent pending.

"What sort of exercise do you usually get at home?"

The quizzical frown was back in place, this time due to the unprecedented failure of his 'subject-changer' expression. It had always been so reliable in the past. Of course, in the past it had been directed at those tedious women who tended to congregate around him at dinner parties, dropping hints about as subtle as the plump cleavage erupting from their gowns. Clearly, the captain wouldn't so easily succumb to standard diversionary tactics, and when Blaine thought about it he supposed there was no harm in answering. "The usual, I guess." Blaine shrugged. "Riding, walking, boxing, dancing. Things like that."

"The usual."

Blaine absorbed the dry response, uncertain what Captain was hinting at. "I – um. Yes?"

"You're a hard worker for someone who spends his days riding and dancing."

A warm, slow flush tinted Blaine's face, due partly to embarrassment at how privileged he'd unintentionally sounded and partly to his pleasure at the compliment. "That sounded very elitist, didn't it?"

"It's not your fault," Captain didn't disagree. "We're all products of our upbringing."

A playful grin tried to pull at Blaine's lips. "So you come from a long line of dastardly pirates?"

The soft, feathered quill was twirled in slow circles while Captain studied him and Blaine tried valiantly to hold a straight face. "Do you come from a long line of dancers?" the pirate smoothly returned.

"As a matter of fact, no." Blaine lost the fight against his smile. "My father refuses to dance. Says it's undignified for a man his age, but I've long suspected he's a graceless clod on the dance floor, who stepped on so many feet in his youth that no lady is willing to risk her toes with him, least of all my mother."

"Whereas you..."

"Whereas I am so light on my feet that I'm never allowed to rest," Blaine declared with exaggerated pomp.

"Is that so?" Captain's tilted head and skeptical survey of Blaine's slouched, over-fed body, was a challenge that could not go unanswered.

"Absolutely. Women pursue me relentlessly. It's exhausting."

"Hmm." Feathers brushed gently across some of Blaine's favorite features as the captain considered the problem. "If you were to marry, they might be less aggressive."

"I could." Blaine let his tone convey what he thought of that idea, then leaned forward over the table. "Or... I could buy passage on a ship and sail off into the sunset, never to be seen again." The captain was unable to completely hide his surprise.

"Is marriage that distasteful?"

Sitting back, Blaine suppressed his disappointment that this attractive man thought he should be looking for a wife. "It is to me," he replied honestly and, deciding to take advantage of this opportunity to draw one or two facts out into the open, he turned the tables. "Do you hope to marry someday?" Blaine was expecting to hear a scoff and possibly some kind of acknowledgment from the pirate that women held no interest for him so that the two of them could begin to come to an understanding.

But the captain's reaction wasn't what he'd hoped for. Rather than an immediate and disgusted 'not on your life' there was a thoughtful silence and Blaine began to think he wouldn't get an answer. But it came eventually.

"I'm not in a position to be able to marry."

There was a striking level of emotion detectable in the captain's low voice. And for once, Blaine wished there wasn't. Because the emotion was sadness. It was the sound of someone resigned to a life of loneliness. He didn't think he'd ever be able to marry. He wanted to marry. He wanted a _wife_. Blaine processed the captain's words and formed rock-solid conclusions that ran circles around each other in his shocked mind, trampling all over his hopes and beliefs and leaving a dismal, desolate voyage spreading itself out before him, void of touch or taste or sweet whispers.

His head pounded with the sure knowledge that he had been wrong. He'd completely misread this man the same way women were forever misreading him. The captain's soft voice and beautiful face and love of fine things were surface traits; a few minor aspects of a complex and multifaceted man. Blaine had made an assumption based on appearances, a habit he detested in other people, adding guilt to the already long list of regrets he'd developed within the last sixty seconds. He absently twisted a napkin in his lap, unable to meet the captain's eyes any longer. The stinging in his own was causing the napkin to blur.

Later he'd tell himself it was all for the best. It was absurd to think that anything could have happened between them. Unless Blaine wanted to become an outlaw, there was never any hope of having more than a short-lived fling and he could get that anywhere, with much less trouble.

He would tell himself all of these things and more. Later. When it didn't hurt so much.

Blaine cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm awfully tired today, Captain. I'm sorry. Guess I'm still adjusting to the early mornings." He tried to force his lips into something resembling a smile.

At first, there was no answer and the silence was unbearable, so Blaine began to stack and neaten the lunch dishes with uncharacteristic attention to detail. "All right." The captain's gentle words had the effect of a heavy weight pressing down on Blaine's lungs. "I'll have someone escort you back so you can rest."

Blaine could only nod jerkily. "Thank you, sir."

Captain didn't waste time, standing immediately and locking away his papers. Minutes later they were in the galley where Cook was already starting on the evening meal while her assistants cleared up from lunch. With them was the footman who had been traveling with the Iron Fist's female passengers. Blaine couldn't summon up the energy to say hello, choosing instead to wait by the door after depositing their tray. Cook beamed at them after a quick inspection of it.

"Afternoon, Captain. Anderson," she gushed. "How was your lunch?"

"A masterpiece of culinary art, as always," Captain replied facetiously in his uniquely moderated voice that Blaine no longer found so impossible to read. The captain got a smack on the arm for it and retaliated by kissing Cook on the cheek, unseen by the footman, whose slightly trembling hands and refusal to look behind him gave away his nervousness in the pirate's presence.

Blaine refused to feel envy for the cook's special place in Captain's life. Their friendship was none of his concern. Soon enough he'd be gone from this ship and could put this entire episode behind him. He would find a place to live and a job and the independence he'd always wanted. And he'd meet someone handsome and exciting and wonderful who would definitely not have bright blue eyes or any unnecessary dents in his rugged face.

"Let's go," the captain's brisk command interrupted his determined daydream of big, hairy, brown-eyed men, effortlessly erasing and replacing them with willowy, mysterious brunettes with long legs, explosive tempers and deceptively soft, lonely hearts that cried out for someone like Blaine to cherish them.

With gritted teeth and shallow breaths, Blaine pushed away the image, along with the utterly unfounded feeling that he'd lost something vital and precious, and followed quietly. He stared morosely at the leather boots striding easily ahead. They were brown today, not the black ones Blaine had rashly grabbed onto that day he'd made a such fool of himself up on deck.

He should have known then, with the captain towering over him, weapon drawn and looking every bit the deadly pirate he was. If Blaine wasn't so blindly naive, he would have abandoned this foolish infatuation at that moment, lying there on the floor when it was so plain to see that the strongest feeling Captain had for him was contempt.

Now here it was, another beautiful day at sea, Blaine noted with disinterest when they arrived back outside. But for the first time since his capture, all he wanted was to sit in his cell and wait for an end to this nightmarish trip. He softly sighed, still walking behind the captain, who was just beyond his reach in more than one sense. In spite of everything, Blaine could only admire the man. It was no one's fault but his own that he had stupidly romanticized the facts to match his own desires. Wanting someone would not make them want you back. The problem was that he'd only experienced that truth from the opposite side of the issue. Very few men had ever been more than a passing fancy to him, and those who were had been willing enough to indulge his interest. Until now.

_Enough_, he scolded himself. Dwelling on it did no good at all, so he would simply have to stop. Focus on something else. Like the fact that the captain was climbing the stairs to the top of the deckhouse. Blaine hadn't been up there before, not even aboard the Iron Fist, so it was a good distraction. He followed a few steps behind, since he hadn't been told not to, and saw a handful of men already there, including a familiar face.

Blaine hadn't seen or thought about Mr. Davidson since that first day, when he'd been the angry looking one of the bunch that came down to see the prisoners and settle inevitable rumors of impending torture and death. He remembered now, though, that death at this pirate's hands had seemed not only a possibility, but a likelihood for Smythe when he made threats against Captain Black. Now that he thought about it, that had been the first of several incidents where someone had shown a loyalty and protectiveness toward the captain that could only have been earned, not hired. Not one captive, with the exception of Smythe, had vowed revenge for the death of their own captain as Blaine was sure would be the case for Captain Black. Even Smythe had appeared more furious for his own sake than for that of his dead leader.

While the captain went to speak with his men, Blaine hung back, drifting over to one side where he'd be less in the way. Most of the weatherdeck was visible from where he stood, as were miles of ocean in every direction, but it was the sails that entranced Blaine. They were an amazing sight, straining and relaxing against the ropes like they were alive, breathing in and out with each gust of wind. The same wind that was sending his untamed curls flying wildly about his head, but he wasn't going to think about that.

Suddenly, Blaine saw a figure moving amongst the sails. He held his breath as the man left the relative safety of the mast to go out along one of the ropes suspended beneath the horizontal beams. With a hand on the beam, he was standing and walking on the rope!

"That's Mick," Captain said, coming up beside him.

"How does he do that?" whispered Blaine. "I'd break my neck on the first try."

"Every sailor can do that; they have to climb aloft to set and stow the sails, but I've never known anyone else with Mick's talent."

Mick was a tall, lanky man with amazing balance and agility. He appeared to be looking for something, as he was continuously peering down at the beam and the sail and the ropes holding it in place, but whatever it was, he didn't find it. After reaching the end, he spun about and made his way back toward the mast, moving quickly, as if he thought he was on solid ground. But before reaching it, he hopped up to sit on the beam, legs dangling in the air, and then the silky black hair tied back from his face was swinging below him as he hung upside down by his knees, grinning. Blaine's own knees felt decidedly wobbly.

"He's showing off now. He must have noticed us watching," the captain murmured with an air of proud affection. It was faint, but nonetheless startling to hear. Blaine's head swiveled toward him, which was a mistake. Captain's face was lifted toward the sailor, his soft hair gleaming bronze in the sunlight, and the wind was ruffling through it like an eager lover. A fresh wave of sadness came over Blaine, bringing with it a bone-deep ache to reach out and let his fingers take the place of the breeze.

His fists clenched at his sides and he went back to watching the dance-like moves of the sailor before the temptation became too much. "Is he – is he checking the ropes?" Blaine hoped some casual conversation might get his mind off other things.

"Rigging. Yes, he's looking for any signs of fraying or weakness that could cause it to snap under the weight of the sails."

"Oh." Blaine frowned. "Is that likely?" He couldn't imagine how Mick would survive if a sail were to break free while he was up there. It would knock him about like a leaf on the wind.

"Only if no one is checking."

Blaine's traitorous head turned again against his will. He was immediately both infinitely glad and desperately sorry it had. Because the dimple was back. Captain wore a tiny grin that curled one corner of his lips, but it was enough to mark that innocent looking spot as the place. _The_ place that gave the lie to all Captain's attempts to be seen as a monster. Blaine would never be fooled again because of that simple, beautiful, insignificant little dot. And that shouldn't hurt, but it did.

So he forced his gaze away again, only to be caught this time by Davidson's menacing glare. Dislike emanated from the man like a physical thing and, for whatever reason, was aimed directly at Blaine. He was confused as to why that might be when they had never spoken a word to each other, but it served as a helpful distraction.

"Cook is in a good mood today." The captain finally looked at him, unknowingly interrupting the staring match going on under his nose. "She was singing your praises." The dimple deepened. Blaine kept his eyes firmly on the captain's. "Said I'd be a fool to let you go."

Struck speechless, his terror at the idea of staying on the Blackbird, torturing himself with wanting what he couldn't have, must have been unmistakable. Captain's mask fell instantly into place and now he was the one to look away from Blaine. "Don't concern yourself. When we reach our destination, every prisoner will be gone from this ship, one way or another." The chill had returned to his voice. Blaine wished he could convince himself it had never left.

"I'm sorry," Blaine whispered brokenly and followed the captain's gaze. He was monitoring the progress of three female prisoners and an equal number of escorts, taking a slow walk around the deck under the watchful eyes of nearly everyone. "I can't stay here," he said, knowing Captain wouldn't understand. Knowing too, that he hadn't been asked to stay. But he still needed to say it and hear the words aloud.

They were silent while the ladies finished their walk and were offered seats in the shade of the deckhouse atop several crates. The crates didn't look terribly comfortable, but it was an improvement over the floor of the brig and the ladies weren't complaining. Mr. Finley and Mr. Abraham were there, and a wavy-haired officer Blaine didn't recognize. The men were evidently going to teach the ladies how to repair fishing nets. What Miss Pillsbury thought of this idea, she was unable to communicate in actual words. However, the maid was simply shaking her lovely blonde head over the pile of netting she'd taken onto her lap for closer examination before patiently explaining to Mr. Abraham that their net was full of holes and this was clearly why it didn't work.

Poor Mr. Finley made less progress than either of them, as his charge, the young brunette, was busy stringing together so many words that she had not paused to take a deep breath, let alone allow him to speak.

"It's extremely kind of you to allow us outside like this," Blaine said, and let himself to look at Captain's sculpted profile again. There would be a finite number of opportunities to study him and Blaine could acknowledge, inwardly, that he'd later regret every one he wasted. "I've been wanting to thank you. I never dreamed we would be treated so well." Soft pink began to color the tips of Captain's ears in the most endearing way and Blaine's resulting smile was a blend of caring and bereft. He definitely needed to get off this ship before it was too late and he ended up leaving his heart behind.

"Mr. Davidson," the captain called out without taking his eyes off of the spectacle below. A few long strides had the angry man joining them, still glaring hatefully at Blaine.

"Sir." His sharp response put Blaine in mind of an Army infantryman, ready to lay down his life at a word from his commanding officer. Except in this scenario, Mr. Davidson would obviously prefer to vanquish the 'enemy.' The only question would be how to choose from all the different ways he might kill Blaine. A pistol and cutlass hung from his belt, but Blaine had a sneaking suspicion that having his face beaten to a bloody pulp as a tasty appetizer for the sharks would be the more favored choice.

"Please escort Mr. Anderson to the brig," Captain requested without bothering to look at his officer or observe the triumphant sneer he shot Blaine's way.

"Be glad to, Captain," Davidson replied and Blaine believed it, though he remained at a loss as to how he had earned this particular pirate's loathing. Unless the man simply hated everyone. That would explain it and such a miserable existence could even garner a little sympathy from Blaine if it were true.

But before Davidson could drag him – as he seemed to want literally to do – back to his cell, Captain turned to Blaine for a moment. "Perhaps you'll feel better tomorrow, Mr. Anderson. Cook will send for you in the morning, as usual."

As soon as they were dismissed, a grip on Blaine's upper arm jerked him toward the stairs and he went without a fuss, the parting words turning over and over in his head. Behind the flat tone, which Blaine knew was his own fault, the captain had almost sounded like he cared. Like he was coming to think of Blaine as a member of his crew. Which was a terrible thing. _Terrible_, Blaine reiterated in his head. He was conflicted enough already with no encouragement at all. Heaven forbid the captain should warm up to him. Blaine was liable to do something supremely stupid if that happened.

It was a quick trip down to the brig. Also silent and unpleasant, thanks to Davidson, who continued to pull Blaine by the arm as though he were a recalcitrant underling in need of discipline. A few days ago, or even earlier that morning, Blaine might have questioned such treatment. Now, though, with so much else on his mind, he couldn't find it in himself to care.

They made it as far as the door to the brig before Davidson decided he couldn't keep quiet on whatever subject was festering under his skin. The meaty hand clamped onto his bicep was used to spin Blaine, bringing them face to face.

"Lay one hand on the captain and you're dead." Davidson didn't beat about the bush.

Blaine took this latest threat in stride, looking calmly into the scowling face of yet another person who was somehow under the impression that they needed to warn him off. First Cook got this wild hare up her ass that Blaine might deal the captain some sort of emotional damage. Like that could happen. And now this guy thought... Well, Blaine wasn't sure what this guy thought, but he was fairly certain Davidson didn't think the captain's life was at stake. His was more of a general warning to stay away. Strange, that. Weren't pirates meant to be cut-throat and self-serving? Why was this group so protective of each other? "Cook's threat was much more creative," he informed Davidson, whose teeth clenched.

The burly sailor looked affronted by the comparison. "There won't be anything left for Cook when I'm done with you," he finally shot back, resuming his scowl.

"Yeah, yeah. I got it. Don't hurt the captain." Blaine rolled his eyes. Feeling decidedly reckless and thoroughly fed up, Blaine got right in his face. "He can take care of himself, you know. And he's more frightening than you because I never know what he's thinking or where I stand with him. He could be plotting _my_ murder for all I know. Maybe he likes to give his victims time to grow complacent. Maybe he gets off on playing with people's heads and seeing the surprise and betrayal on their faces after they've finally stopped fearing for their lives, only to have it ripped away." Blaine was breathing hard, holding back all the emotions that had been building up for the last hour until he was ready to explode.

The fact that Blaine didn't believe any of the nonsense he was spouting was irrelevant. All his frustration was quickly turning to anger at the convenient target Davidson presented and at the general stupidity of anyone who believed Captain Black needed a babysitter. Blaine rarely lost his temper, but when it did happen, he wasn't one of those who screamed and turned red and threw an almighty tantrum. He went straight for the jugular, telling people the cold, hard facts that absolutely no one wanted to hear about themselves.

"I'm not going to hurt your precious captain and he sure as hell doesn't need you looking out for him! I doubt he'd thank you for going behind his back either, and treating him like some helpless woman who needs the protection of a _real_ man," Blaine spewed, hardly aware of what he was saying anymore. "I'll never touch him. And he won't touch me!" he complained bitterly. Davidson just frowned down at him with wide eyes, obviously trying to pinpoint exactly when he'd lost control of the situation.

Blaine had had enough. He yanked open the door and stomped toward his cell, shooting dirty looks all around. Thad and Nick were there, neither daring to approach him with such a thunderous expression on his face, the likes of which they'd never seen on Blaine before. Not even imprisonment had stolen away his good humor. But here Blaine was, scowling impatiently, waiting for a guard to open the cell door. Thad and Nick moved their quiet conversation off to one corner while he paced like a caged tiger. They were no fools. It was a shame, really, because Blaine was spoiling for a fight.

"Anderson." The call was quiet and distant; a buzzing gnat that went ignored. "Anderson." Smythe increased his volume, glancing at the guards across the room.

"What!" Blaine snapped, though his pacing continued uninterrupted. He was in no mood to listen to the likes of Smythe, too busy planning what he'd do when he finally got off this thrice-damned ship. And the first thing he was going to do was pick up a sailor who looked nothing like Captain Black and give him the night of his life!

And when he was through with that one, he'd find another and another and he wouldn't give Captain another thought or pretend even once that it was the pirate in his bed, and he hoped that, wherever Captain was at that point, that he was happy being completely and totally alone every night, because he was passing up a once in a lifetime opportunity. Blaine didn't like to brag, but he'd been told more than once that he had the finest ass in town and if Captain didn't want it, well that was his loss!

"Anderson!" Smythe was turning red in the face.

"I said 'what!'" Blaine finally stopped to glare.

"I want to talk to you," Smythe wasted Blaine's time by announcing, nose in the air.

"I got that when you called my name three times." Blaine narrowed in on a possible new target, now that Davidson was gone. "What the hell do you want?"

"Would you keep your voice down?" hissed Smythe.

"Why should I?" Blaine asked, loud and clear.

"Because we could help each other out here." The first officer turned smug. Well, more smug, as it was a standard look for him. Blaine curled his fist and eyed Smythe's teeth. "It's obvious you're sick of being treated no better than a common _servant_."

The way Smythe spat the last word made Blaine look over at the guards, contemplating a request for just one minute in the first officer's cell. Some of his favorite people were servants.

"I can help you earn back your self-respect," Smythe went on when Blaine remained silent.

Having never been short on self-respect, Blaine's frustrated anger began to cool, replaced by amazement at the turn of this conversation. He could be grateful to Smythe for that at least.

"How exactly do you propose to do that?" Blaine nurtured his growing curiosity in the hopes that Smythe would say something truly asinine. Odds were in his favor.

"I can make you first officer of the Iron Fist," he declared, far surpassing Blaine's expectations of ridiculousness. He didn't know how to begin to answer that.

"The Iron Fist," Blaine slowly repeated in lieu of a real response.

Smirking, now that he believed he'd captured Blaine's interest, Smythe nodded slowly back.

"And just how do you plan to do that?" Blaine's interest genuinely was peaked, though not for the reasons Smythe believed.

"Simple." Leaning closer to the bars, Smythe dropped his voice even lower. "We're going to take over this ship."

Blaine's mouth hung open. "What?"

There was another smirk. It was beginning to get on Blaine's nerves. "You and I will tell the others to be ready, and when the moment comes, all of the men these fools have let out of their cells will strike."

Blaine didn't laugh. Didn't even crack a smile. "I see." He didn't see. "And what do you mean, 'When the moment comes?'" he asked. "What moment?"

"The moment you kill Black."

His jaw came unhinged again and Blaine stared uncomprehendingly at the man he could only presume had been sane once upon a time. This accusation was different than the ones he'd received from Cook and Davidson, whose concern seemed more along the lines of him offending or taking advantage of the captain. "You think I'm going to kill the captain," he said carefully, but Smythe either couldn't hear the quiet disbelief in his tone or his mind was too far gone to fathom what it meant.

"Of course," he replied easily.

"Mr. Smythe," Blaine began.

"Call me Sebastian. After all, we're going to be working very closely together." His face tilted downward and one brow quirked in what he probably thought was a seductive maneuver; a reference to the repeated propositions he'd made prior to the attack. To Blaine's annoyance when they were on the Iron Fist, Smythe had seemed to think his refusals were part of some coy game they were playing. Blaine hadn't given the matter much thought since their capture. It wasn't important enough to take up space in his cluttered mind.

Biting his lip, Blaine wondered how to put this delicately. "Fine. Sebastian," he placated. "I don't know what I might have done to give you the impression that I'm a murderer, but let me set the record straight right now."

Smythe waved him off impatiently. "Don't be stupid," he said. Which was especially rude after Blaine had refrained from saying the same. "They're pirates," Smythe now explained, as though speaking to a deliberately obtuse child. Blaine was getting quite tired of being talked down to. "Killing pirates isn't murder. It's justice."

Blaine scratched absently at his beard, reconsidering his insanity diagnosis. It was possible the man actually believed what he was saying. "I'm not sure you understand the definition of murder," said Blaine.

Smythe sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, Anderson." Clearly, he was losing patience. Funnily enough, Blaine's was being restored at an equal pace. "You're just going to have to trust me on this. All you have to do is kill Black and I'll take care of the rest. No one is going to get hanged for murder."

Accepting that the first officer really did buy his own conclusions, Blaine was nodding to himself. Smythe smiled at him. "You're an idiot," Blaine told him in no uncertain terms. Smythe stopped smiling. "If you think I'm going to kill someone – anyone – in cold blood, you obviously don't know me at all. And if you believe for one second that I, or anyone else for that matter, could kill the captain and live to worry about being hanged, then you haven't learned a damn thing about these pirates. That is not only murder, it's suicide, and I am neither a murderer nor suicidal."

An ugly red flush was creeping up Smythe's neck, and the other prisoners who were close enough to hear were no longer pretending not to eavesdrop. Smythe's cronies were shooting Blaine hateful looks and Thad's distinctive snickers could be heard from behind him.

"But let's leave me out of it for a moment," Blaine continued. It felt good to vent and simultaneously take Smythe down a peg. "Even if, by some crazy coincidence, the captain was out of the way, and let's say, by some miracle or fever-induced dementia that you did convince the prisoners to revolt, they would still be unarmed and outnumbered, and you would still be locked in that cage when the pirates came looking for revenge."

"And one last thing." Blaine wrapped both hands around the iron bars and borrowed one of the captain's useful traits, letting his eyes go cold. "About that other offer you made when we were still on the Iron Fist." From the way Smythe stiffened, Blaine guessed that his preference for men wasn't common knowledge. "Not for all the pirate treasure in the sea," he swore, and watched the reddened face twitch in mute response. Finally, the sincerity of his rejection had gotten through. And there was little Smythe could say back without giving himself away. Blaine gave him a satisfied smile and turned to talk with his friends.

* * *

Kurt couldn't sleep. "What else is new," he grumbled up at his canopy. The ship was quiet and the waves lapping against the hull were peaceful, yet he couldn't sleep. Something was different, however. His sleeplessness wasn't caused by an unconscious dread of nightmares or a mind working overtime to plan out his next attack and prepare for every contingency, or even a rehash of each detail of a potential target's actions and the connection of tidbits of information gleaned from sources all over the world.

On this night, Kurt's thoughts were centered exclusively on Anderson. _Blaine_, as Kurt had begun to think of him privately. Such a beautiful name.

Their conversations from that day were replaying in his head, stirring up feelings he'd rather ignore. One by one, Kurt's hopes for identifying and focusing on Blaine's flaws had withered away. So unfair. All he'd wanted was for his outrageously handsome cabin boy to have the voice of a banshee or the personality of a sea slug. He'd even have settled for a lousy sense of humor or open disdain for himself and his crew.

Naturally those hopes were in vain. After a lifetime of disappointments, Kurt expected nothing less than the opposite of whatever he wished. He hadn't wanted a cabin boy. He got one anyway. He hadn't wanted it to be the single attractive prisoner out of the bunch. Too bad, it's him. Then he could only hope the man would not be as wonderful inside as out. So, guess what? He's even better.

As far as Kurt could tell on such short acquaintance, Blaine Anderson was disgustingly perfect in every way but one. A vital one, from the point of view of Kurt, who didn't see why women should get all the best men.

He and Blaine had been having a quiet lunch that somehow morphed into light-hearted talking. A pleasant chat between two people getting to know each other. From there, steering the topic toward more personal matters had been easy and Kurt didn't think he'd been obvious at all, but he couldn't resist the chance to learn more about Blaine. Especially the one thing he most wanted to know.

Some men – maybe most men – with his leanings took pains not to show it. Many would deny it even to themselves and spend their lives hiding behind the skirt of a woman rather than face reality. Kurt might choose to live in denial on occasion. Rare instances. Hardly ever. He'd deny any more than that. But he refused to lie to himself when it came to his sexuality. He'd sooner spend his life alone than with a woman. And he'd intimated as much at lunch, because opening the door to subjects like that worked both ways. If Kurt wanted to know about Blaine, he'd have to share things about himself as well.

So the tone of their discussion had changed, and Kurt learned the answer to his question, though of course not the answer he wished for. Blaine's feelings about marriage were surprising, though. If Kurt was a betting man, he would have wagered that marriage was behind Blaine's decision to travel overseas to begin with. A man of his age and background would have few reasons for such a voyage. Either he needed a rich bride and had been forced to expand his search, or a bride had been chosen for him and he was trying to delay the inevitable. Those were the reasons Kurt had deemed most likely, anyway.

Leading the talk down that path hadn't gone as expected, however. The subject of marriage had caused Blaine to become withdrawn and depressed. So much so that Kurt presumed he'd been hurt in the past. His firm stance against marriage suggested that he couldn't have the person he wanted and wouldn't settle for anyone else.

Maybe he'd been rejected by someone he loved, or his parents had forbidden the match. If he'd been unlucky enough to fall for a servant girl, for instance, his father might have threatened to cut him off. This trip could be an escape from a forced marriage, or he could be running away from unbearable contact with a woman he could never have. Kurt couldn't very well ask after seeing how upsetting it was to Blaine. It was all so heartbreakingly romantic. And heartbreaking for other reasons.

Whatever the cause, it was clear that any tiny spark of hope that might have lurked somewhere in a dark, hidden corner of Kurt's heart, behind a large wall of skepticism, was doomed to die a painful, lonely death. Which was no more than he anticipated for himself, so at least he was prepared. If there was a silver lining, it was that Kurt's dejected sighs wouldn't be heard by anyone one else in his big, too-empty bed late at night.

A real surprise would have been finding out the attraction was mutual. Hell, the shock might have killed him.

Ah, well. Kurt still had his fantasies. In those, he was never disappointed. Because in Kurt's fantasies, any reluctance on Blaine's part was nothing more than an adorable token protest before the ultimate surrender.

Watching the man work every morning was delicious torture. Kurt was never so glad in his life to be devoutly clean-shaven as when Blaine was mixing that bowl of shaving soap. The way his hips wiggled in sweet little circles with each quick stroke of the brush made Kurt want to kneel behind him and take a bite.

Groaning softly, Kurt sent his fingers sliding past the waistband of his sleep pants and relaxed into his latest waking dream.

Blaine might jump and look over his shoulder in surprise, but Kurt's hands on those teasing hips would hold him steady. Kurt wanted to press his face against the resilient muscle and let his lips wander along the enticing crevice and down to the join of thigh and buttock, and he wanted it without the barrier of fabric between them.

He stood quickly, spinning his startled prey and pinning him to the wall. Blaine only gaped at him, hazel eyes big and beautiful and inches from Kurt. He could stare for hours, marveling at all the colors swirling together in those eyes, but he hadn't time just then. His current target was fixed somewhat lower.

Kurt stared back with lowered lids and grasped Blaine's forearms, lifting and holding them to the wall above his head. Blaine didn't struggle or demur and his look of surprise began to fade as his breathing became more labored. His wrists crossed and went limp, resting on the crown of his head and half buried in silken curls. Kurt took a moment to appreciate the sight before his palms skimmed slowly down the strong, shapely arms toward a broad chest. Blaine's body was all hard muscle, wrapped in smooth, honey colored skin and sprinkled with tantalizing dark hair. He could have fought Kurt off had he tried. The idea never seemed to occur to him. His limbs remained where Kurt had placed them as though chained there and his panting breaths were the only sound he made as soft hands explored him.

Buttons slipped free as Kurt neared them. Clothes fell away under slowly stroking hands, because this was _Kurt's_ dream and if he wanted bare skin, he'd have it.

Soon, he could see and languidly caress every inch of the tight, manly frame displayed like a banquet before him. But the time for gentle touches would come later. For now, Kurt wanted to be buried to the hilt within the firm, round cheeks that wriggled erotically for him every morning.

Not wasting another moment, he closed in on his captive, hands dropping and reaching back to cup and clench the taut mounds. With a jerk, Blaine was lifted from the floor. He squeaked in alarm, legs wrapping instinctively around Kurt's waist and hands flinging out to clutch at his shoulders for support. He was well and truly caught, and all Kurt's to do with as he liked. "Captain!" Blaine gasped. But he didn't say 'stop.' He never did, in Kurt's fantasies.

Kurt ignored the implied question in his prisoner's voice and lowered his gaze to the small gap between them. Blaine's body told him what his silence didn't, because the column of flesh reaching up toward his belly was lengthening and hardening even as he watched. "Your cock is gorgeous," Kurt murmured down at the shiny, dark pink tip before closing the distance and planting his face into the crook of Blaine's neck, pressing him more firmly against the wall. "Roll your hips for me, Blaine," he ordered and felt the immediate response.

He relished the tightening and relaxing of Blaine's ass in his palms as he obeyed, rutting gently until he whimpered in discomfort. "Captain. Your pants," he complained, knowing Kurt would never punish him unduly. "They hurt."

Kurt had to agree his clothes were in the way. He willed them off with a thought, never giving up an inch of the ground he had gained against his less than reluctant opponent. An opponent who sighed dreamily when his sensitive skin was fitted tightly against the velvet smoothness of his captain's rigid shaft and not the abrasive cloth of his trousers. The rutting began again and now the sighs were interspersed with delighted 'Mmm's' and 'Ohh's.'

Kurt allowed it, never one to deny his lovers their pleasure as long as he wasn't denied his. His own hips moved in counterpoint, their arousals rubbing in delicious friction, and his teeth locked firmly onto Blaine's shoulder while his fingers gripped and flexed, edging ever closer to the nether region he craved.

When his fingertips brushed the tender rosebud, Blaine cried out softly, his movements becoming more erratic, and Kurt decided he couldn't wait any longer. He leaned his weight more heavily into Blaine's torso to hold him steady while his own knees bent and his cock slid free between the spread cheeks.

Blaine's arms were wrapped tight around his neck and his cries were muffled against Kurt's skin as he was stretched and opened. Slowly, but firmly, Kurt penetrated him, sinking into the warm channel that clenched and loosened, strangling and welcoming him by turns.

He didn't stop until he'd bottomed out and he was the one panting harshly. His lover's passage was slick enough to ease his entry, yet tight enough for Kurt to feel Blaine's pulse against his cock. He moaned at the sensation of heat and muscle enveloping him and pushed deeper, only wishing he could get his balls in there. But since he couldn't, Kurt did the next best thing. He pulled back and slammed forward. And then he did it again. And again.

Blaine was a dead-weight of open-mouthed need, putting himself and his release entirely, and literally into Kurt's hands. His tongue lolled against the skin of Kurt's neck, swiping around his grunts with each pounding thrust.

It was hard work. Kurt's back shone with perspiration, his biceps bulged with the strain of holding Blaine high against the wall, and his hips pistoned relentlessly. His teeth couldn't hold their grip and his forehead dropped to the dampened shoulder while he worked in Blaine, breath blowing across his collarbone like a galloping horse. Kurt's cabin boy was everything he'd ever wanted and more. The gorgeous man he'd desired on sight was now his and he'd be damned if he'd ever let him go. This was only the beginning of what he wanted to do to Blaine.

Soon his prisoner would be addicted to Kurt's cock and unable to bear the thought of leaving. He would plead with Kurt to let him stay. He would give himself as a gift and beg Kurt not to send him away.

Kurt's back arched off the bed, hand stroking fast and sure, thumb swiping over the head of his cock as his mind was filled with jumbled images of Blaine against the wall, on the bed, on his knees, sucking, fucking or begging to be fucked as hard as Kurt could pummel him and loving every minute of it.

A moment later, Kurt gasped and came, alone in his bed, with only his thoughts to keep him company.

It wasn't enough, but it was all he had. And as he blinked, bleary eyed up at his canopy, he was grateful for what Blaine had given him already without knowing it. Having a beautiful man to spend his thoughts and his orgasms on at night was a vast improvement over what he'd had before. Too relaxed to move, Kurt couldn't even be bothered to clean up before he drifted into a deep, restful slumber.

* * *

**TBC**


	8. Seeing Signs

"I just don't understand it." Lauren was ranting and pacing agitatedly back and forth across Kurt's cabin while he watched from the relative safety of his favorite chair. Once she'd settled into a good rant, there was no stopping her, so he stayed back. "Everything was going so well!" Kurt supposed that depended on your definition of 'well.' Lauren stopped to shoot him a glare so dark he thought he might have accidentally voiced the thought aloud. "What did you do to him?" she demanded.

It was a fair question. She couldn't have failed to notice, any more than he could, how Anderson had changed, becoming quiet and withdrawn lately. What she didn't know was that this behavior might have stemmed from Kurt's conversation with him a few days previous. Something had upset him that day. It could have been something Kurt said, or an unhappy memory stirred up by their talk, or – as he secretly feared – Anderson might have sensed Kurt's attraction to him and been filled with disgust. Whatever the reason, Kurt definitely blamed himself. He shouldn't have let his interest in the man override good sense. As a result, he'd resolved to go back to being as cold and distant as he should have stayed all along, and he'd managed it so far. But instead of putting Anderson at ease, it somehow made things worse.

Being an intelligent young man, however, Kurt knew better than to hand ammunition to the enemy. And Lauren in a sour mood qualified, especially when Kurt was sitting within striking distance. "I don't know what you mean," he replied with such calm innocence that her lips pulled back until her teeth were bared, ready to rip the truth out of him the hard way.

Thankfully, there was a knock at his door before she could actually go for his jugular, and Kurt wasted no time opening up for his rescuer, or in this case rescuers, as it was Billy with a tub slung over his head and Alex with buckets of heated water.

Arms crossed and teeth put away, Lauren tapped an impatient foot while the boys quickly set down their burdens. Meager as his baths were aboard ship, with only a few inches of water in a tub barely large enough to hold him, Kurt nevertheless sighed with gratitude. On cue, his scalp began to itch and he thanked the boys, ready for everyone to vacate his room so he could scrub away the ever-present salt residue and apply a generous coating of his favorite orange blossom skin balm. He'd been around sailors all his life and had no interest in looking like a worn out old piece of leather by the time he reached thirty, thank you very much.

Lauren, of course, remained where she was so she could continue to give Kurt the evil eye. That didn't bother him too much. He'd built up an immunity after years of exposure. What was disturbing was when her look turned calculating. He could practically hear the hatching of a new plan in her head and tried to nip it in the bud. "Goodnight, Cook. I'll see you tomorrow," he said quickly and with little attempt at politeness.

"You know," she drawled and he groaned, watching delicate tendrils of steam rise slowly from the water buckets to be lost forever. "The workload in the galley has doubled with all the extra mouths to feed," she claimed. "Not to mention the necessity to haul heaps and heaps of food _all_ the way down to the brig several times a day."

"You know why they can't all eat in the galley, but I'll ask Abe to arrange for some extra kitchen help," he offered plaintively, eyes flicking from the tub to her to the door and back. Whatever point she was striving toward – and he felt sure he wasn't going to like it – he wished she'd get to it and be on her way.

"No," she declined with a thoughtful, pensive air and began to pace again, more sedately this time. "No, the men are horribly overworked as it is. They're already covering for the sailors you sent to man the Iron Fist _and they_ have the added hardship of watching over your guests every minute of the day. Why, poor Trout has practically given up sleep altogether what with going straight from night watch to guard duty." Kurt winced guiltily.

"No," she continued with that unique dramatic flair she had that Kurt often enjoyed but could do without just then. "As much as the boys, and I," she splayed a hand over her heart, "want nothing more than to see to your _every_ comfort, Captain," his dread increased, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut back on their workload." She stopped to look him in the eye. "Until the visitors depart, I'm going to have to insist that Billy and Alex dedicate their time to galley work." Kurt frowned, not quite following. Lauren gave him a sorrowful look. "I'm very sorry, Captain. But I'm afraid the boys will not have time to prepare your baths anymore."

He gasped in horror. "What?!"

"There's no help for it. I can't permit them to work themselves into an early grave." Her head shook from side to side in quiet sorrow. Then her face lit up with a brilliant idea. He tensed. "I know," she declared. Kurt felt himself being set up and, as always with Lauren, helpless to prevent it. "Anderson!" Lauren smiled brightly at the obvious solution to their problems.

Kurt stared at her long and hard. "You hate me, don't you."

* * *

Blaine poked at the food in front of him, idly drawing lines and shapes. It seemed time was dragging by more slowly now in the captain's cabin than it did in the brig, and there was just something wrong with that. For days the captain had barely said two words to him; had hardly looked him in the eye. Blaine didn't feel like he was allowed to even smile at the man anymore, or it would be unwelcome if he did.

They were back where they'd started, except that Blaine no longer feared for his life. The captain's features were once again schooled into that emotionless mask that at first had been terrifying, then intriguing, then frustrating before it had finally begun to crack and dissolve. Now that it was back, it was more depressing than anything else, keeping Blaine at bay as throroughly as a brick wall; impenetrable and insurmountable.

On that unhappy day not so long ago when he'd learned the captain could never want him, something had changed, not only with Blaine, but with Captain too, and it was entirely Blaine's fault. The pirate had been teasing him – _teasing him_ – about staying aboard the Blackbird, and his reaction had been stark terror. A response that had caused shutters to figuratively and immediately slam down over the captain's open expression. So now Blaine had guilt piled on top of the giant dung heap that had become his life. Just what he needed.

There'd been no more flashes of dimple since then. Blaine missed the dimple. He missed trying to ferret out those rare sparkles of humor that would appear and disappear in a blink; missed searching for hidden emotions and trying to understand the man underneath it all.

He rose from the table, sluggish with lethargy that his daily dose of coffee could not overcome. Captain hadn't touched his breakfast and Blaine didn't do much better despite having declined his own portion earlier. Cook was going to have kittens when she saw it. If she saw it. Blaine eyed the porthole thoughtfully. _Wh__y not?_

The stupid window latch didn't want to cooperate, but he beat it into submission with a short struggle and a warning glare. "Hmph," he gloated and reached for the bread. Captain didn't look up from his work, quill hanging poised over his parchment.

Blaine stepped back, holding the bread loosely, tossing it lightly into the air to be caught again in his palm while he narrowed his focus in on the porthole and calculated how far out to sea the impromptu projectile might fly. Too bad there were no seagulls this far out to sea, but he thought the fish would enjoy a change of diet.

His arm pulled back, his breathing calm and eyes fixed on his target. _All right. __Get ready, fishies. Here it comes!_

"What are you doing?"

The bread went zinging slantwise and Blaine clutched at his chest. "Fhlrngh," he wheezed.

Captain merely arched a brow without comment.

Blaine looked at him and quickly away, choosing to track down his wayward missile and not think too much or too hopefully about the possibility of being on speaking terms again. "I was– bread– fish." A telltale splatter of crumbs could be seen on the wall and in the middle of the room, where it trailed across the floor and disappeared under the armoire.

"I'm sure the fish have plenty to eat," the captain replied to Blaine's incoherent mumble.

"Yes. Yes, sir. I thought Cook might – I mean I didn't want her to think you weren't eating." Embarrassed, Blaine continued to avoid looking directly at him.

"Mmhmm." Captain waited, but Blaine didn't volunteer any other excuses. "I've withstood her complaints before. It's nothing to what she'll do if she finds you throwing food overboard."

"Oh." Blaine deflated, following his slumped shoulders downward to kneel and scavenge under the armoire. "I hadn't really thought of that." He bent farther, flattening his cheek against the floor with his bum high in the air and awkwardly stretching an arm into the small space to snag the fugitive breakfast roll. There was no answer and Blaine supposed the captain either couldn't hear him with his voice directed under the furniture or his talkative mood had gone out the window, unlike Blaine's aim.

Abused and broken bread once more in hand, he got back to his feet and went to plop it on the tray. Captain was hard at work again, face firmly pointed toward the parchment and cheeks warmly flushed. _What?_

A quick, sharp clearing of throat some eternal seconds later brought to Blaine's attention that he was standing next to the table, staring. His own face heated and he grabbed the kettle, hastily making his way to the washstand where he couldn't possibly see the captain. Unless he looked in the mirror. _Damn._ He'd just have to keep his eyes firmly down. No pink-cheeked pirates to be seen here. No, no, no. And no blushing prisoners either. He groaned inwardly, feeling like he'd regressed several years back to his very enlightening and uncomfortable puberty.

Well, he'd gotten over the shock of being attracted to his own gender soon enough and he'd get over this too. Pointless crushes were not Blaine's thing. There was someone out there who would fill the empty space that made his chest ache. He'd focus on that thought. And even if he would never marry or have children, Blaine knew he'd be happy when he found the right man. They'd be happy together. He just needed to have patience and it would happen. He glanced up in the midst of his daydreaming and did a double-take.

The captain was still leaning over his work, but was looking up through his lashes, not into the mirror, but at Blaine's legs. That in itself was strange, but it was the _heat_ in those eyes that shocked Blaine to the core, that and the way the gaze traveled downward before slowly making its way back up in an almost physical caress. There was a discordant clank from the shaving brush hitting the side of the small, porcelain bowl where Blaine had been mixing the captain's soft-scented soap. And with the clank went the eyes. Captain was looking at his papers again. His head didn't move. It was as if Blaine had imagined the whole thing.

Maybe he had.

Or maybe he hadn't?

With utmost care, far more than was called for, Blaine resumed mixing the already well blended foam, all the while keeping watch. To his disappointment, Captain's eyes remained downcast, though at the thought of that hot gaze, Blaine suddenly, and self-conciously, became very aware of how the swirling of the brush was mirrored by his twisting hips, the rotating motion of his arm causing his whole body to sway. The brush slipped, flinging a frothy splotch onto the washstand. Blaine hastily set the cup down and swiped distractedly at the mess. Then, in a daze, he shambled over to the armoire to hide his face – and his confusion.

_What just happened? Captain was staring at me! No, you're dreaming, Blaine. It's impossible. He told me so, himself. Didn't he? He did! I remember it clearly. He said he liked women. Or wanted to marry one. Or something..._

_Well it was clear enough at the time!_

Blaine, pulling out and replacing articles of clothing at random, drew a sharp breath. _What if Captain was lying? What if he doesn't want anyone to know __his secret__ and he was trying to throw me off the scent!_

_No. That doesn't make sense either, because if he's attracted to me – and, _Blaine thought breathlessly,_ that look screamed **want** – then why would he push me away when I was practically throwing myself at him?_

His thoughts kept going in circles, wreaking havoc like a cyclone. He needed to pull himself together and think about this logically before Captain noticed something was wrong. A short glance showed the pirate to be locking up his work, away from prying eyes. Not that Blaine would pry, however curious he may be, but he couldn't vouch for the dozens of other men aboard. Or Cook, for that matter. She might be the nosiest of the bunch.

Blaine began to feel calmer as the initial shock wore away and he forbid himself from jumping to conclusions. There was no way for him to be certain of what he'd seen. Unless it happened again.

A small smile pursed his lips. With a little judicious planning and his newfound awareness, it _could_ happen again. He'd make sure of it.

Feeling much more in control and energetically plotting his next move, Blaine turned back to his task and selected clothing for the day. It hadn't taken him long to learn what the captain favored at sea and what was presumably reserved for when they were in port. Blaine would've liked to see him in some of his finer things, but there were definite benefits to work clothes. Like the fact that Captain sometimes neglected to wear an undershirt and Blaine was subsequently treated to glimpsed shapes and shadows that made his mouth water.

He was smoothing the clothes out on Captain's bed when a distant shout carried through the open porthole. As one, he and the captain looked toward the window and then at each other. And an instant later came the loud clanging of a bell and the sound of running footsteps from above.

Blaine had rarely seen anyone move as fast as the captain did then. He jumped up and rushed the few feet to his bed, whipping off his robe and nightshirt as he went without even giving Blaine time to turn politely away as he normally did.

"Shoes!" he said, galvanizing Blaine into action with him, and was dressed in ten seconds flat, just after a frantic banging on the door had started up, accompanied by the yelling voice of Trout trying to get Captain's attention, as though he might somehow have missed the fact that he was needed on deck.

Captain's boots were no sooner on his feet than he was throwing open the door and pushing past the worried looking guard, Blaine right on his heels, and within moments of the alarm sounding, they were on deck.

Everyone was shouting and running from place to place in a sort of organized chaos. Voices were clamoring over each other until none of them could be understood. Captain ignored it all, crossing the deck in rapid strides and taking the stairs two at a time to the upper deck where senior officers were congregating. Men parted to make way and Captain didn't slow, but kept going until he'd reached the rail, holding out a hand for the spyglass that was slapped into his palm. One of the men leaned in close and pointed out to sea. The spyglass – and Blaine's gaze – followed. If he squinted, he could just make out a dot on the horizon.

Suddenly, Captain was shouting out orders faster than Blaine could follow and sailors were rushing about again with new purpose. Some of the sails were hoisted, which baffled Blaine no end until he heard the order to signal the Iron Fist to come in closer and make ready her guns. "Standby a lifeboat!" Captain yelled to someone down on the main deck. "Be ready to get those men back on my order!"

Rather than run, Captain was preparing to stand and fight.

Panic blossomed in Blaine's chest. He'd taken two steps forward before Trout stopped him with a grip on his arm. "Captain?" the blonde called out.

The fierce look on his face when Captain turned was one that Blaine could not have imagined there after all the time they'd spent together. Somewhere along the way, Captain – _Blaine's_ Captain – and the infamous Captain Black, thieving, murdering pirate, had diverged in Blaine's mind. They were as opposite as night and day. Deep down he knew that was just his way of making excuses for the man's past, but he couldn't help it. The person he'd come to care for did not have the heart of a villain. So all the horrible things the public thought they knew about him must be false. Blaine watched him intently and breathed a sigh of relief when he recognized that fierceness to be determination. There was no sign of joy at the prospect of a fight, no glint of avarice at the possibility of an easy target. He didn't send the Blackbird in pursuit of unexpected prey. Rather, he was ready to defend against an attack.

"Find Abe and get the prisoners below," he was saying to Trout. "He's probably rounding them up now." And with that, the captain was turning away again, without so much as a glance at Blaine.

"Captain!" he protested, letting the hurt show in his face for being so easily dismissed.

For an instant, he saw _his_ Captain again. And he saw the deep worry etched in his face. The safety of his crew was obviously something he took very personally and seriously. Then it was gone and he was the pirate again, an imovable object between his crew and the unknown threat. Blaine shook off the hand that tugged at him and hurried closer before anyone could stop him, though Mr. Finley stepped forward protectively and Davidson's pistol was drawn and raised.

"Captain," he said in a whispered plea, "I want to stay with you. Please." Blaine balled his fists against his thighs to keep from reaching out.

There was the briefest hesitation and softening of eyes and Blaine let himself hope, until Captain's jaw firmed with resolve and he quickly, gently brushed the fintertips of one hand over Blaine's elbow.

"Go with Trout. You and the others will be safe, I promise," he said and looked over Blaine's shoulder. "Stay with them, Trout. Make sure every last man gets out if you hear the order to abandon ship. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Trout answered and resumed his grasp of Blaine's arm. "Let's go, Anderson."

"Tell Abe to bring me a head count as soon as you're finished. I want every last man accounted for," Captain gave a last stern warning. His gaze gentled again almost imperceptibly when he looked at Blaine's stricken expression. "Please go, Blaine," he finished quietly.

"Captain!" someone shouted from below and the pirate turned away, all business again.

Blaine let himself be pulled away at last. "Be careful," he softly begged, though Captain could no longer hear him.

* * *

It was a day for chaos. It reigned below as well as above; not to mention within Blaine's turbulent emotions.

He was terrified. Captain had promised the prisoners would be safe, but he'd made no such guarantee for himself. If only Blaine were with him he could somehow offer protection, simply by being there. As if nothing could happen to the captain with Blaine watching over him. 'Pure, emotional nonsense,' said his mind. 'It doesn't have to make sense to be true,' said his heart.

"He's pacing again," observed Thad from the back of the cell where he and the others leaned against the wall, out of the way of distraught cellmates with an excess of energy and deficiency of humor.

"Never a good sign," Johhny opined.

"I wish he'd stop that. He's making me nervous," Trent piped in.

"Anderson." Trout walked over to their cell and put both hands on the bars. His slight frown turned to a grin. "Hey, Anderson. Rumor has it you can sing. That right?"

"That's right!" Thad laughingly confirmed it to be one of the 'skills' the man had listed in his desperate attempt to escape the confines of the brig. "In fact, as I recall, he claimed to be the best singer in all Christendom. Said his voice makes the angels weep!"

Blaine stopped pacing to chuckle and shake his head at his friend and cellmate. "You could be struck by lightning for telling a whopper like that; and dragging the angels into it too! You know very well I never said any such thing."

"But you ain't denying it either, are ya?" Thad wagged a finger at him. "Come on. Give us a song, then." A chorus of agreement went up from some of the other prisoners and Blaine had to laugh.

"I don't think anything from my repertoire is really suited to this occasion," Blaine demurred with a smile. "How about you give us a song, Thad? I seem to remember hearing some very interesting lyrics coming from you aboard the Iron Fist. I don't know a single sea shanty, you know. How about the rest of you teach me to sing like a sailor?"

Half an hour passed in this way, with the men being determinedly jovial and no one mentioning the approaching danger. "Trout," Blaine quietly called out, waving the blonde over while the others were distracted. "What do you think's happening up there? Can you go find out?"

The blonde gave him a small smile that was too strained to to be reassuring. "Can't. Captain ordered me to stay here and here I'll stay. I wouldn't worry though. That ship was most likely some merchant or other who'll give us a wide berth. And if they are dumb enough to get close, they'll take one look at our markings and start praying for a strong wind to get 'em the hell out of here."

The door opened then to admit Mick, who'd never been to the brig to Blaine's recollection. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to speak with the guards in a low voice and summoned Trout over with a jerk of the head.

"What's going on?" Johnny came over to stand with Blaine, who was clutching the bars and staring at the pirates, fighting the urge to yell and curse and demand that they include him. Trout was frowning at something Mick had said and the knot in Blaine's stomach was twisting tighter and tighter.

After their whispered conversation was over, Trout and Mick moved farther into the room and stopped in the center. The prisoners quieted down; sea shanties and laughter dying away as they all waited to hear what the pirates had to say.

"Looks like we're going to be down here a little longer," Trout reluctantly announced. "It's nothing to worry about, but Captain hasn't given the all clear yet."

"Who _are_ you. Where is the so-called 'Captain,'" spat Smythe, who'd been quietly fuming up until then. "You tell that coward he can get down here and explain for himself what's going on and stop sending his dogs to do his job for him," he demanded, looking down his nose at the two sailors.

Blaine instantly recognized the glint of amusement that lit Trout's eyes, as he was rarely without it. Mick just looked surprised by the strange outburst, eyebrows perched high. He followed Trout as he moved closer to Smythe's cell.

"Who am I?" asked Trout, ignoring the rest of Smythe's little speech. "Name's Smith. John Smith." He gestured toward the guards across the room. "And over there is James Smith and Joe Smith." Trout regarded Smythe calmly. "No relation."

Smythe glared, signature sneer firmly in place. "And I suppose you're Jack Smith." His gaze raked over Mick with an expression that suggested he'd found something nasty on the bottom of his shoe.

"Malaprop," the asian proudly declared. "Jedediah Euphestus Malaprop of the Louisiana Malaprops. You've probably heard of us." Sticking his thumbs into his waistband, Mick gazed smilingly off into space, his voice taking on a pronounced twang. "Why, my old grandpappy, Mr. Phineas Malachi Malaprop and his beloved wife Magdaline Imogen Anastasia Malaprop loved the family name so much they had _fifteen_ sons to carry it on. Even my own daddy, Zachary Demetrius Malaprop wouldn't rest 'til he'd sired five sons of his own. He hadn't figured on how stubborn his wife could be, 'course. My mammy, Mrs. Violetta Marietta Rosetta Malaprop – née Jonesetta – she had her heart set on girls and she went and gave him seven daughters to go along with them boys Daddy was trying to get on her. Mammy never cared much for being told what to do." Mick set his sights back on the bossy captive. Trout looked like he was about to burst from some kind of internal pressure. Smythe gaped.

"Any other questions?"

BOOM!

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

**A/N:** I updated! Yay!

This chapter gave me such fits I had to scrap it and start again. Thanks justagirlwithbigdreams, for giving me a nudge when I needed it. I'll try to do better.


	9. The Battle

BOOM!

Women screamed, sailors braced against the recoil of the ship, and Mick took off at a run, back to his post. The Blackbird had fired the first shot. Blaine could feel vibrations travel through the floor and into his body. Breath held, he waited for the next one, surprised when it didn't immediately happen. A full minute passed. His tension began to ease. And then all hell broke loose.

Boom!

One of the other ships had fired. Blaine couldn't tell which one. After that it was a full-on battle, the shots coming rapidly, one after another. The noise was intense and the ship rocked and swayed like a leaf in a storm. It felt like they were moving, but the shots kept firing. He lost count of how many. All he could do was hold on and put every ounce of his faith into trusting the captain.

"Let us out of here!" Mr. Stanley shrieked in obvious fright. Even Smythe looked startled. "Someone's firing at us! What if we're hit?! You can't leave us here to drown!"

The Iron Fist's former navigator continued to screech, slapping away the hands of his shipmate and friend, Mr. Goolsby. They made an odd pair, those two, one sadly lacking in looks and compensating for it with a sharp tongue and ready insults; the other tall and handsome and willing to go along with whatever Stanley or Smythe said, because he was also dumb as a rock. That was Blaine's impression, anyway.

Trout, to his credit, did his best to calm the man, patting the air and offering assurances. When that didn't work, he shocked the man into silence. "Quiet!" he bellowed, accompanied by the sound of more cannon fire.

"You hear that?" Trout held Stanley's frightened gaze and the man nodded jerkily. "That's the Iron Fist helping to keep you safe. Whatever ship's captain was fool enough to attack us probably thought she was dead in the water. Captain Black will soon teach him the error of his ways."

"Now," he inhaled deeply and addressed the whole room. "Do you know why the captain ordered me down here?" Stanley's head shook, wide eyes still locked on the blonde like a drowning man to a lifeboat. "Anderson," Trout called. "Tell everyone what my orders are."

Blaine cleared his throat, trying to think of something other than the fact that they were being shot at. "He – uh – Captain Black told you to stay down here and make sure every last man gets out if you hear the order to abandon ship."

"You see?" Trout said to Stanley. "'Every last man.' That's exactly what he said, though he by no means meant to exlude the women. I'm sure _you_ would insist that the ladies be released first. Wouldn't you?" He nodded encouragingly while appealing to Stanley's inner chivalry, if he had any.

Other men were nodding and murmuring agreements while Stanley wrung his hands, looking torn. "Yes?" He glanced at the ladies, whose lovely faces were all turned his way, as though their fate rested solely in his hands. He straightened to his full height of five feet two and spoke with authority. "Of course the ladies should be released first. What kind of question is that?"

"Good," said Trout with a smile to reassure the man he'd answered correctly. "Ladies first, naturally, then the rest of you. Captain has nothing to gain by your death."

"That's a lie," Smythe shoved Stanley aside, centering attention on himself. "We've seen his face," he said loudly enough to ensure his voice would carry. "We're all _witnesses_. He wouldn't dare let us leave this ship alive." Smythe looked triumphant.

All around him, the captives were quiet, considering. "He's right you know," said an old sailor across the room whose dislike of Smythe was no secret. "I seen Black with me own eyes more'n once. Giant of a man, he is. Thick, black beard and eyes cold as death." He shuddered dramatically.

Prisoners and guards alike stared at the old salt in surprise. "That's him all right. 'Cept he's only got the one eye," another prisoner put in, placing a palm on his face like a patch.

"And don't forget that ugly scar what's on his neck," added a third. "Like someone tried to cut 'im ear to ear." He drew a finger across his own throat.

The room started buzzing with outlandish descriptions of the pirate captain, prisoners calling out this detail or that and arguing amongst themselves about whether or not Captain Black was a full seven feet tall and if his voice was better described as a thunderclap or a lion's roar.

Smythe's tantrum went largely unheard, Trout's grin had taken over his face and Blaine, still feeling overly emotional, could have hugged Thad and Johnny when they kicked off a new round of discussion about the slew of tattoos covering the captain's massive arms.

By the time anyone noticed the cannon fire had stopped, most of the room's occupants had come to a consensus about Captain Black's appearance and they could all agree he was a fearsome sight.

"Shh," said Thad, cocking an ear toward the ceiling and pressing a finger to his lips. The motion was repeated by others and the brig began to quiet down. "Do you hear that?" he asked.

"I don't hear anything." The pretty blonde maid's words were easily heard across the room.

"Exactly!" Thad crowed, spurring a raucus cheer that could probably be heard from the Iron Fist.

Trout all but skipped over to Blaine's cell in his excitement. "I'll run topside and check on things," he told the prisoner in a rush. "I'll bet Captain sent that bastard running with his tail between his legs!"

"Trout!" Blaine's arm shot out between the bars to make a grab for the blonde before he could disappear. "Take me with you?"

"Can't!" Trout didn't stick around to explain. "I'll be back before you have time to miss me!" he laughed, dashing out of the room.

A friendly arm was thrown around Blaine's shoulders for a quick squeeze, drawing his gaze to Johnny's sympathetic face. "You all right?" he asked. "With us covering for the pirates, I mean? You were kinda quiet through all that."

Blaine's nod was distracted, his eyes drawn back to the door.

"Us sailors – well, we have to look out for each other you know? And these pirates don't seem like such a bad lot all-in-all," Johnny went on, unconvinced. "I don't think there's a crewman here who'd say he was treated better by Clarington. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but there were times I wanted to cut the bastard down myself."

An understanding smile from Blaine seemed to ease his friend's mind. It also couldn't hurt Blaine to let himself be distracted from his worries for a short while. "It's okay, Johnny. I admire what you're doing," he said. "I've gotten to know a few of these men and they're nothing like I expected." Blaine thought back to the time he'd seen Captain laughing his heart out in the galley. "They don't act much like bloodthirsty killers, do they?" he mused.

"Nah. That they don't," Johnny agreed. "They coulda tossed us over the side and left, but they didn't. I really think they're gonna let us go."

"I think so too." Blaine's chest hurt. "I never asked, what job did you get assigned to?"

Johnny grinned. "Tending the animals."

The statement repeated itself in Blaine's head once or twice. "Come again?"

"The animals. They've got livestock onboard. Can you imagine! Haven't you wondered why the food's so fresh here? It's just a handful, mind, a few sheep and pigs and a goat for milking." Johnny's smile was brilliant. "Only enough for the voyage. It's perfect. I don't know why more captains don't do it, except they care more about cargo than men. 'Course it's not easy keeping animals alive at sea, but if the water's calm and they're well cared for, we've got fresh lamb stew and pork that isn't rancid. And it isn't like they're meant to stay alive forever, is it?" His elbow jabbed Blaine in the arm. "If something were to happen, like a sheep breaks its leg, well then, it's roast lamb for dinner."

Blaine felt queasy. He ate meat, sure. That didn't mean he wanted to think about how it came to be on his plate. "You don't mind the work, I take it?"

"Well, it's not exactly fresh as a daisy in there, but they open the hatches up top to let in air and sunshine and there's water for washing and someone's gotta keep the floor clean and the animals fed. Right?"

Pigs. Actual pigs. Blaine chuckled. "I think that's great," he said.

"I know. It's like I'm helping in the kitchen after all." Johnny was still grinning when the door banged open, causing both guards to draw their guns on instinct until they saw it was only Trout.

He leapt down the short flight of steps and raised one arm in a universal sign for victory. Another cheer went up, and another round of curses from Smythe for the 'mutinous, pirate-loving traitors who'd all be hanged.'

"What happened?" someone shouted to be heard over the crowd.

"Cap'n left 'em dead in the water! And–," he waited for the noise to die down, "and to add insult to injury, he blew the lady right off her bow!"

A roar of guffaws went up while Blaine and the other passengers cast puzzled frowns at the sailors.

"He shot a woman?" Miss Pillsbury gasped in dismay. She'd nearly been convinced these pirates weren't entirely indecent folk, especially after meeting the one they called Doc, with his wholesome charm and soft curls the color of rich, sweet honey. A man like that would never ally himself with anyone truly evil. So it stood to reason that the Gentleman Pirate must be more gentleman than pirate. Or so she had thought.

"How could anyone do such a thing?" she tearfully lamented. "A poor, innocent, helpless lady. Murdered! Cut down like an animal in the street and all you can do is laugh? You horrible monsters!" Her voice rose to a wail and her face was buried in her hands. Poor Doc, taken in by lies and trickery. If only she could help him escape their clutches. She should take him with her, somewhere he'd be free of this vile life and able to enjoy more pleasant companionship. She sniffled.

More laughter had kicked up and she uncovered her face with a dainty slash of arms to give them all her best glare of reproach – a must have in the arsenal of any proper lady.

"I apologize, ma'am. I meant no disrespect." Trout ducked his head and looked up at her with soulful eyes to melt the hardest heart. "No women have been harmed, I promise. The lady I spoke of was the carved wooden figurehead at the bow of the attacking ship," he explained. "Though to call her a lady is being very generous." He cracked a half-grin at the ensuing whistles and cat-calls.

Miss Pillsbury blushed at the insinuation. "I suggest you choose your words more carefully in future, young man," she scolded before giving him her back.

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am." He scratched his head, looking oddly unamused. "What else? Oh, right. Cook asked me to fetch her a helper." Johnny perked up instantly. Had he been a puppy, his tail would have wagged. "Mr. Wilson, she said. Is that you?" He looked to the footman for affirmation and called the guards over to let him out.

Blaine grasped the bars of his own cell door, silently begging.

"Cook says she'll light the fire again 'as soon as we've left that no good interloper well in our wake,' was how she put it, along with some other colorful expletives that I'll leave to your imagination."

"Does she need another hand?" Johnny spoke up, looking hopeful and, bless him, giving Trout a reason to walk over.

"She didn't ask for another, but I can tell her you offered, Mr. ...?"

"Johnny James."

"Really?" asked Trout, some of his typical amusement at life restored. "You could be a pirate with a name like that."

"Trout," Blaine blurted out. He'd kept quiet as long as he could bear to. His nerves were on edge with the need to _insist_ that he be take to the captain right the hell now.

"Sorry, Anderson. Captain has his hands full just now. He said he'd send for you tomorrow." Trout's brow furrowed in a rare display of stress.

"What's happened?" Blaine demanded. Captain was hurt. He knew it. He _knew_ he should have stayed!

Head shaking as if he'd read Blaine's thoughts, which might well have been written on his face, Trout came closer. "It's Abe," he murmured.

Blaine nearly sagged with relief, hating himself for it the next moment. "Is he dead?" He kept his voice low enough that only Trout and Johnny could make out the question.

"Doc's with him up in surgery. That's all I know. Except that the captain will blame himself. I know that."

"Let me help. _Please_, Trout," he entreated.

"He won't want to see anyone."

An unholy scream ripped through the air from somewhere in the ship. Men and women alike flinched at the sound. Some crossed themselves. Dozens of faces were upturned, listening despite themselves.

Trout swore and turned toward the guard, holding up a hand to catch a hefty key ring that the guard tossed over. "Don't make me regret this, Anderson. Come on."

* * *

Blaine could hardly recall their mad dash to the galley, he and Wilson running to keep up with Trout, who made no pretense of guarding them. Outside Cook's space, they slowed almost to a walk before turning the corner, where Mr. Wilson left them standing to put himself straight to work. Cook gratefully gave him a list of tasks to get started on. She was rattling off orders left and right in her normal stout and efficient manner, belied only by her red-rimmed eyes.

Trout waited for her to finish talking, then wrapped her in a fierce hug, ignoring the half-hearted slaps to his back and shoulders. Only Blaine saw the wobbling of her chin before she gave in and hugged back.

"He'll be fine," she insisted, swiping her apron across her face when Trout eventually let go. "Abe's tough as nails. Everyone knows that. And _you._" She jabbed a plump finger at Blaine's nose. "You take care of _My Captain_ or you'll be answering to me. Understand?" She waved a hand to ward off an argument that wasn't forthcoming. "I know he'll be a right pain in the nether cheeks – probably tell you to go straight to hell – but that's only because he's hurting." Another jab and mild scowl served to punctuate her claim and cover up her own embarrassing emotions.

"Yes, ma'am." Blaine dug deep for that childhood stubbornness his governesses and tutors had always accused him of. Captain would have his help whether he wanted it or not.

"We're off to Doc's now. I'll come back with the news," promised Trout. He turned for the door, then spun back. "Oh, I was supposed to ask if you need another hand from the brig? Someone was offering." He looked blank.

"It was Johnny," Blaine supplied.

"That's the one. Should I bring him back with me?"

"Well, I'm not sure he knows his way around a kitchen, but I suppose another pair of arms can't hurt when it's time to haul this lot downstairs. He's eager, anyway. I'll give him that."

"Maybe the most grateful captive you'll ever lock up," Blaine said, moving toward the door. "Ready, Trout?" He didn't wait for an answer, leaving his guard to either catch up or let him find the captain on his own.

"Keep your pants on, Anderson." Grousing, Trout nevertheless jogged up and took the lead.

Topside, repairs were underway and the atmosphere was nervous concern; a family awaiting news on the fate of one of their own. "What happened to Abe, do you know?"

There was a wince and a nod. "Cannonball flew right over us, Puck said. He's the quartermaster. Said it missed the hull by a hair, smashed through the rail and skipped off the deck, straight through to the other side." He pointed out the missing pieces of siderail that were being boarded up. "Caught Abe in the leg when he tried to jump out of the way."

"Poor man."

"Yeah. Puck reckons he'll live, if infection doesn't set in, but..."

"He'll lose the leg," Blaine finished with a heavy heart.

Trout made no reply. "It's back this way," he said, following a familiar path toward the brig, but veering off at an early side passage. Blaine used the time to prepare himself for a different kind of battle, shoring up a wall of determination to stand against anything Captain might throw at him.

* * *

"Get him out of here. Get him out of here, Trout!" Captain came as close as he ever did to shouting in anger.

"He only wants to help," Trout returned in a soothing voice.

"Doc doesn't need any more help!"

"Captain." Blaine stepped forward, palms out.

"No!" he shrieked and jerked away. Blaine didn't push, knowing when not to step on a man's pride. He waited quietly while the pirate pulled himself together, his back to Blaine, spine rigid, clothes and skin smeared with blood.

It was only the three of them in the passageway outside the small room that was Doc's office and makeshift surgery. "Finley and Davidson are still inside," Captain said to the closed door after he'd calmed down. "Doc poured alcohol on him to fight off infection. We had to hold him down. Then Doc gave him laudanum to knock him out while–" his voice cracked. "I should be in there," he whispered almost to himself. "I just – I couldn't breathe. And the saw," he choked to a halt.

A movement from Trout had Blaine grasping his arm and shaking his head. He motioned for the sailor to leave them alone. Trout hesitated, looking back and forth between Blaine and the captain before nodding and retreating back the way they'd come.

"Tell me about Abe," Blaine asked gently, hoping to get the captain's mind off exactly what was happening behind that door. "How long have you know him?"

Glassy eyes turned toward him, shiny with unshed tears. "Why are you here?"

Helplessly, Blaine stared back. "I was worried about you."

His answer was scoffed at. "You shouldn't waste your time. People like me only get what they deserve." Captain took a deep breath. "But Abe is a good man. One of the best I've ever known. It should be me on that table."

Blaine watched the play of emotions, for once not hidden behind any mask. He could see agony and self-loathing and everything the captain was feeling from moment to moment.

"I want the bastard who did this dead," Captain snarled. "I should have sent that ship straight to the bottom." His pale face became flushed. "It's not too late. We left them floundering, you know." The fierceness from earlier was back.

"You don't really want to do that." Blaine kept his tone soft and unabrasive. Still his words focused the Captain's anger sharply on him.

"Why shouldn't I?" he demanded.

"Someone else could get hurt." The reply was gentle and cut straight to the heart of Captain's inner conflict.

The pirate was breathing hard, jaw clenched. Hissing in frustration, he pushed past his 'helper' and would have left him there if Blaine had let him. But he kept pace with the long angry strides through corridors and back on deck. Men stopped as they passed, probably hoping to glean some news of Abe's condition, which they didn't. Captain didn't stop until he was alongside the deckhouse. "Puck!" he barked, causing sailors all around to get back to work.

A moment later the quartermaster stuck his head over the rail of the upper level, blinking in surprise. "Captain?" he asked, then paled. "Abe?"

"Doc's still with him," the captain answered a little less furiously. "Finley and Davidson are helping with the surgery." Those men who were supposedly minding their own business bowed their heads. "Send Finley to me as soon as he comes out," he ordered.

"Aye, Captain." Puck nodded, seeming to understand this wasn't the time for questions.

* * *

Kurt stomped out his anger, literally, retracing the path Lauren had paced across his floor not long ago. He'd trod it many times over the years to help clear his head. And never, in all that time, had someone stood by and watched.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" he snapped. Anderson had stuck to him like a barnacle since Trout had run off – and just wait until Kurt got his hands on him for _that_. It was disconcerting, trying to pace with that sad gaze following him left and right.

Anderson considered the question. "No," he said irritatingly.

Kurt fumed, until he remembered that he doesn't let people see him fume. That irritated him further, so he paced and fumed, with occassional annoyed mutterings thrown in.

Another minute passed. "Will you stop that!" Kurt paused again to glare, ready for a fight.

Anderson had the nerve to look flummoxed. "Stop what?"

"Stop staring holes through my head before I put holes in _your_ head!"

For some reason that made the leechy cabin boy smile. Kurt glared a little bit harder.

"Sorry," the smile said. "Would you like me to read to you?"

Nonplussed, Kurt nearly forgot what they were arguing about. "What?"

"It might help you relax," Anderson explained.

"I'm plenty relaxed!"

"Mm-hmm." Anderson's lips pursed, reminding Kurt to look at them.

More glaring followed. "This is no time to relax, anyway." Kurt dared him to disagree.

"No, sir," he said, purely to be disobliging, Kurt was certain. "Would you rather yell? You can yell at me all you'd like. I don't mind. Or continue pacing if you prefer and I'll just be over here, not staring holes through you." Anderson made himself comfortable in one of Kurt's chairs; not his favorite, or Kurt might have had to throw things at his head.

Feeling the need to take out his frustration on inanimate objects, if not upstart cabin boys, he yanked out his own chair viciously and threw himself into it with barely a wince. His arms crossed and he settled in for a good, long staring contest across the table. One he would win.

"Who was it that attacked?" Anderson looked down at his fingers, twiddling together on the tabletop.

Kurt scowled at the man for handing victory over and denying Kurt the pleasure of beating him. "Some pissant trying to make a name for himself, I suppose. Either that or he saw we weren't moving at full speed and thought he'd happened across an easy target."

Anderson wore that adorable puzzled frown of his that Kurt refused to find, well, adorable. "How do you know they weren't coming to offer help if they thought we might be in trouble?"

Noting the 'we' with a small frown of his own, Kurt sighed at the naivete of gently bred landlubbers. "Because my first shot was low and wide. A warning to change course, which they didn't." His posture unconsciously softened, one leg crossing the other and an arm stretching across the table where his fingers could drum if the urge hit.

"Oh." Anderson pondered again, as he seemed wont to do. Kurt had already noticed he wasn't one of the masses who constantly spoke first and thought later, if at all. "That was rather foolish of them."

"To put it mildly," Kurt agreed. "They also made the very grave error of not attacking the Blackbird first. They went for the weaker ship, possibly hoping we would abandon our prize and make a run for it."

Anderson's eyes had gone wide while he listened. "Did they sink her? Were you able to rescue the men?"

"The ship took some damage, but she's still afloat and none of the men were hurt."

"What happened?"

"The other ship – which was unmarked, but that won't stop me from finding her again – began to draw level with the Iron Fist at a distance, and with her cannons aimed high. The captain was obviously trying to disable, not destroy. He must have realized she was being towed and decided he wanted the Iron Fist for himself, or at least her cargo. The deckhouse got the brunt of the damage, since her sails were hoisted. But while they were busy firing against a skeleton crew like the cowards they are, we dropped sail, cut the tow line and swung sharp across her bow."

"You mean the other ship was heading straight for us? Why would you want that?" Anderson was leaning forward in rapt attention.

"Simple. It put her bow in line with our guns." Kurt cracked a smile. "It put her _sails_ in line with our guns. This is a twenty-eight gun frigate, fourteen on each side, and we got off two rounds as we passed. By the time we circled around, her sails looked like a bunch of moth eaten old curtains. And just as we passed," Kurt leaned closer, "bulls-eye!" He slammed a fist down on the table and Anderson jumped. "We landed a hit smack on the mainmast."

"There was this moment," Kurt recalled, "where everything stopped. All eyes were on the mast, waiting, and then 'crack!'" His palm slapped the table. "I'll never forget that sound. Then slowly it started to tip, like a tree in the forest must fall, taking what was left of her sails to dangle over the side. I wish you could have seen it. It was a thing of beauty."

Something that looked like pain flashed across Anderson's features, his gaze dropping back to his hands. "I wanted to stay."

Tension returned as Kurt remembered what happened next. "It wasn't safe," he said. "That captain should have surrendered. It'll take them days to make enough repairs to limp into the nearest port. They were sitting ducks and if he was half a man he would have known when to quit. But he wasn't, and he didn't."

One of Anderson's hands slid closer to his own, almost touching. Kurt looked down at their fingertips. Anderson's perfect and soft. His streaked with Abe's blood. "We circled and came up alongside the Iron Fist, between her and the attacking ship. They'd retrieved the tow line by then. They threw it over as we passed and dropped sail and we were on our way. That was it, I thought. The battle had been fought. It was over. I don't know why they fired again. We'd already won."

"They didn't need to do that," Kurt whispered. "We fired back. Knocked out one of her guns and left the bow in splinters. Might've killed some of her crew. Not the captain. Not the one who did this." He looked up at Anderson through blurry eyes. "What am I going to say to Abe? How do I look him in the eye and tell him we ran?"

"You didn't run." Anderson argued. "You got your ship and crew to safety. I'm sure Abe would be the first to tell you it was the right thing to do." His arm stretched and Kurt suddenly felt a warm, comforting hand cover his own. He jerked back, leaping to his feet in agitation. What exactly did Anderson think he was doing?

"Captain."

Kurt ignored the plaintive tone and strange hint of emotion that should not have been present in his prisoner's voice. He went to the washstand to scrub vigorously at the dried blood that adhered to his skin. It had found its way onto his arms and clothes and even his face, he saw, looking in the mirror. Suddenly, he was reminded of the new rules Lauren had set down. Billy and Alex would not be allowed to prepare his bathwater. His scalp itched.

"Someone's coming," said Anderson, just as Kurt heard the footsteps outside. When he turned around, his cabin boy was already half-way to the door and opened it to Finn, who was raising a hand to knock.

"Mr. Finley?" Kurt tried to disguise his fear, though it was far too late to bother at this point. Finn was wearing a frightening amount of blood and looked so pale that it might all have drained from his own body. Kurt moved closer and pulled his brother into a chair, then opened a cabinet near the table, where he usually had a bottle or two of something. He poured a small brandy and pushed it into Finn's hand.

The liquor was swallowed in one gulp and Finn looked up at him, his eyes beginning to brim over. Kurt's hand covered his mouth for a moment. "Is he dead? Tell me," he forced himself to say. He felt faint when Finn's head shook in a negative and didn't protest when a hand on his shoulder pressed him into another chair.

"He's unconscious," Finn got out. "Davidson and I held him down the whole time, in case he woke up. He didn't, thank God. Doc was amazing. I don't know how he can stand it. I couldn't watch. He worked fast. Said it had to be quick or Abe would bleed to death. Then he took the skin and wrapped it around and under and sewed it up. That's what took the most time." He swallowed convulsively. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Anderson was there in an instant with a pail he must have grabbed from the cleaning supply cupboard. Kurt sat helplessly by, tears streaming until he was handed a towel and could bury his face in it. Distantly, he could hear a soft knock and Anderson stepping into the passageway, closing the door behind him. Maybe he should have cared that his prisoner was fielding his visitors, telling them who knew what, but he didn't. He and his brother had privacy to compose themselves and that was okay.

* * *

**TBC**

* * *

**A/N:** Writing this chapter made me cry. I was going to write more, but I decided to post it now so I don't have to cry alone.

The next chapter will be happier. There may be bathing.


End file.
